


believe it when i say

by imagines



Series: wouldn’t dream of missing it [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Flirting, Camping, Chatlogs, Instagram, M/M, Otabek/Chris is a side pairing mind you, Skype, Slow Burn, but in the interests of making sure you don't read anything you really do not want to, but it's a rather generous side, i can’t get enough of the chat/text fics, i don't even know what happened there, i went back and forth on whether to tag 'underage' bc it's a very brief moment of a thing, so i wrote one, somewhere along the way it stopped being a chatfic and turned into a fic fic, there you go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-09-21 20:23:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9564899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagines/pseuds/imagines
Summary: “Okay, what’s your email?” Otabek asks.Yuri can’t help but laugh. “You want a landline number too? Maybe my street address? Come on, nobody uses email anymore. But I’ve got Messenger, Instagram, Skype, Snapchat… take your pick.”Otabek wrinkles his nose. “I do not use a single one of those. So I pick email.”(After the GPF, Yuri wants to keep in touch. A great deal of lying about feelings ensues.)





	1. squishy romance bullshit

**Author's Note:**

> [pissedofsandwich](archiveofourown.org/users/pissedofsandwich/pseuds/pissedofsandwich) said on something else of mine that they wished for "10k of delicious backstory and pining." This isn't backstory to anything, but I think I got the other two. ;)

**DECEMBER**

The taxi is waiting, and Victor and Katsuki are yelling for Yuri to hurry up, but he’s determined to trade screen names with Otabek before flying back to St. Petersburg. Only—

“Okay, what’s your email?” Otabek asks.

Yuri can’t help but laugh. “You want a landline number too? Maybe my street address? Come on, nobody uses email anymore. But I’ve got Messenger, Instagram, Skype, Snapchat… take your pick.”

Otabek wrinkles his nose. “I do not use a single one of those. So I pick email.”

“Oh, you’re one of those ‘I don’t understand why you’d post your entire life on the internet’ types. Fine, give me your phone.” Yuri types his email and phone number and hands the phone back. “Enjoy writing me long, flowery letters or whatever it is you do.”

“I _will_ enjoy it, thanks.” Otabek shoves his shoulder. “Now hurry before they leave you in Spain.”

“Wait!” Yuri says. “I want a picture of us.” He grabs Otabek’s arm and tilts his head toward Otabek, holds his phone high, and snaps the photo. Otabek looks like a deer in headlights, but it’ll have to do.

* * *

**yuri-plisetsky**

#makenewfriends #butkeeptheold #oneissilver #andiwongold

**827 likes**

* * *

Yuri hasn’t even boarded the plane before the first email arrives.

 

**From: Otabek Altin <** [ **otabek.altin@gmail.com** ](mailto:otabek.altin@gmail.com) **>**

To: Yuri Plisetsky <[sofakingyuri@gmail.com](mailto:sofakingyuri@gmail.com)>

@ 4:18 PM

Subject: hi

_This_ is your email address? What do you do when you have to talk to sponsors??

 

**From: Yuri Plisetsky <** [ **sofakingyuri@gmail.com** ](mailto:sofakingyuri@gmail.com) **>**

To: Otabek Altin <[otabek.altin@gmail.com](mailto:otabek.altin@gmail.com)>

@ 4:19 PM

Subject: Re: hi

that was not long OR flowery

try harder

and nobody cares what my email is bc ~i am famous russian skater~

 

**From: Otabek Altin <** [ **otabek.altin@gmail.com** ](mailto:otabek.altin@gmail.com) **> **

To: Yuri Plisetsky <[sofakingyuri@gmail.com](mailto:sofakingyuri@gmail.com)>

@ 4:25 PM

Subject: flowery email incoming

The sun drifts slowly toward the Barcelona horizon, and woe betide me as I mourn the loss of your companionship, my newest, dearest friend. I count the days—nay, the very _hours_ —until I may once again experience the joy of

...maybe I lied about flowery. I’m making myself sick.

Chris is still here, and I think I am going to go to the airport really, really early because he keeps calling me gorgeous and I did not sign up for that?

 

**From: Yuri Plisetsky <** [ **sofakingyuri@gmail.com** ](mailto:sofakingyuri@gmail.com) **>**

To: Otabek Altin <[otabek.altin@gmail.com](mailto:otabek.altin@gmail.com)>

@ 4:31 PM

Subject: Re: flowery email incoming

i regret demanding flowery. ick.

still not v long though. have you considered texting???

tell chris to fuck off

 

<Otabek>

4:34 pm: Texting it is. Does nothing make you happy?

4:34 pm: (Chris has fucked off, btw.)

 

<Yuri>

4:37 pm: u make me happy :) getting on plane now, bye

 

<Otabek>

4:42 pm: Smooth, Plisetsky.

 

<Yuri>

11:58 pm: im the smoothest thats why i win alot

 

**JANUARY**

**yuri-plisetsky**

look at this great cat #catsofinstagram #instacat #catstagram #catlover #catoftheday #caturday

**384 likes**

* * *

<Yuri>

7:23 pm: otabekkkk do you have skype yet

 

<Otabek>

7:26 pm: I don’t have Skype and I don’t want to have Skype.

 

<Yuri>

7:27 pm: but if you had skype you could meet my cat

 

<Otabek>

7:29 pm: …Honestly that is pretty compelling.

 

<Yuri>

7:46 pm: sooo do you have skype yet

 

_< Otabek Altin Calling>_

 

<Otabek>

7:49 pm: All that and you declined the call…?

 

<Yuri>

7:50 pm: hang on

7:50 pm: need pants 1st

7:52 pm: ok call now

 

_< Otabek Altin Calling>_

 

Yuri waves at his laptop camera. “Welcome to the year 2017! What’s up?”

“So, I was promised a cat?”

“Jesus, you move fast,” Yuri grumbles. “Let me find her.” He gets off his bed and and goes in search of Koshka, but it’s no use. “She doesn’t want to meet you today, sorry,” he tells Otabek.

Otabek sighs. “Oh well, guess I’ll hang up now then.”

“Hey!”

“I’m _kidding_. You really want to see my face that bad?”

“No, I—” Yuri glares at him. “I just like video chats.”

“This app is so weird. I feel like I’m in the future. Where’s my flying motorbike? Do not make a Harry Potter joke.”

“I wasn’t going to,” says Yuri, who absolutely had been going to. “Hey, what’s that on your face?”

“Oh—” Otabek touches his cheek, where something pink glints in the light. He turns his head and brings his phone closer to his face—it’s a sparkly heart sticker. “Present from Darya. She’s six and she’s in my group at the rink. Today she landed her first-ever bunny hop, so this is the award she gave me for ‘best coach.’”

“That may actually be the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I told her I would put it with all my other awards. Which is exactly what I’m going to do. Medal, medal, trophy, glitter heart sticker, medal…”

Yuri’s jaw drops. “Oh my god, it actually got cuter.”

“They’re great kids, seriously! I’m always excited to go work with them. Just wait—we’re not going to be the boring neighbor country much longer. There’s real talent here.”

“I am shaking in my skates.” Yuri rolls his eyes, but he can’t hold back a smile.

 * * *

<Yuri>

12:08 am: what house are you in anyway

 

<Otabek>

12:10 am: Isn’t it like midnight there??

 

<Yuri>

12:11 am: dont talk shit youre not sleeping either

12:11 am: so what house

 

<Otabek>

12:12 am: Gryffindor. Just barely.

 

<Yuri>

12:13 am: haha i bet hufflepuff was a close second

 

<Otabek>

12:14 am: Shut up.

12:14 am: ...You are correct. What about you?

 

<Yuri>

12:15 am: almighty slytherins forever!!!!

 

<Otabek>

12:16 am: ofc…

 

<Yuri>

12:16 am: whats that supposed to mean

 

<Otabek>

12:17 am: Stands for “of fucking course.”

 

<Yuri>

12:17 am: omg otabek i know what it stands for but what do you MEAN by it

 

<Otabek>

12:19 am: I’m not surprised, is all.

12:20 am: You’re ambitious, clever, etc.

 

<Yuri>

12:23 am: and a little bit evil

 

<Otabek>

12:24 am: And a little bit evil, yeah.

 

* * * 

**yuri-plisetsky**

a little bit evil #hpscarf #slytherin

**638 likes**

 

**FEBRUARY**

<Otabek>

8:58 am: Hey, what’s your Instagram name?

 

<Yuri>

9:07 am: thought u didnt use ig

9:07 am: thought u didnt wanna post your life on the internet

 

<Otabek>

9:10 am: I was just going to follow you, jeez.

 

<Yuri>

9:12 am: oh no thats not a fair trade. if u dont post u dont get MY posts.

 

<Otabek>

9:13 am: You realize I could just google your username.

 

<Yuri>

9:13 am: stalker

9:14 am: fiiiine its yuri-plisetsky

9:14 am: but i expect some content from u in return

* * *

**_otabek-altin_ ** _started following you._

 

**otabek-altin**

Get s(w)ole. #nofilter #ootd #fromwhereistand

**yuri-plisetsky** likes this

 * * *

<Yuri>

9:19 am: you posted a picture of your SHOE

9:19 am: and your pun was SHIT

9:20 am: how the fuck do you even know those tags??

 

<Otabek>

9:22 am: You did not specify type of content. I held up my end of the bargain.

 

<Yuri>

9:23 am: fuck youu

9:23 am: ive been cheated

9:24 am: youre evil and u should feel bad

 

<Otabek>

9:29 am: I’m evil? You were the one bragging about being in Slytherin.

 

<Yuri>

9:33 am: i did not BRAG

 

<Otabek>

9:41 am: One sec.

9:42 am: [[bragging.jpg](http://oi64.tinypic.com/fupcmf.jpg)]

 

<Yuri>

9:49 am: wait why is my name yura in your phone

 

<Otabek>

9:50 am: Typo.

 

<Yuri>

9:51 am: that makes no fucking sense but ok…

* * *

**otabek-altin**

Happy #valentinesday to me

**98 likes**

* * *

<Yuri>

10:02 pm: who tf sent u roses??

 

<Otabek>

10:05 pm: Was that one more exciting than my shoe?

 

<Yuri>

10:05 pm: tell mee

10:05 pm: was it victor

10:05 pm: katsuki? jj? leo? phichit?

10:06 pm: im gonna text you til you TELL ME

 

<Otabek>

10:07 pm: Maybe it’s a secret.

 

<Yuri>

10:07 pm: maybe go fuck yourself

10:08 pm: WHO

 

<Otabek>

10:12 pm: Chris.

 

<Yuri>

10:13 pm: do not fucking test me

10:13 pm: stop fucking lying

 

<Otabek>

10:16 pm: No, it actually was Chris.

 

<Yuri>

10:16 pm: WHAT THE FUCK

 

<Otabek>

10:17 pm: He said he sent everyone valentines.

 

<Yuri>

10:17 pm: yeah but i threw mine in the trash??? where it belonged???

 

<Otabek>

10:20 pm: I didn’t?

 

<Yuri>

10:20 pm: I CAN SEE THAT.

 

<Otabek>

10:21 pm: Why are you so upset..?

 

<Yuri>

10:22 pm: IM NOT

10:22 pm: im not

 

<Otabek>

10:24 pm: Actually we have a date. On Valentine’s Day, I mean. It’s also kind of for his birthday.

 

<Yuri>

10:30 pm: omfg

10:30 pm: are you gonna kiss him

 

<Otabek>

10:32 pm: Maybe.

10:32 pm: I don’t know.

 

<Yuri>

10:33 pm: omfgggg i do not want to think about this any longer, bye

 

<Otabek>

10:34 pm: It’s not like we’re getting married...

 

<Yuri>

10:34 pm: i said BYE

11:08 pm: what do you even like about him??

 

<Otabek>

11:13 pm: I thought you didn’t want to think about this anymore.

 

<Yuri>

11:14 pm: well now its burned into my brain so

11:21 pm: cmon im sorry i told you to stop talking about it

 

<Otabek>

11:25 pm: I like that if he likes you, you know it.

11:26 pm: He doesn’t leave you wondering.

 

<Yuri>

11:29 pm: oh.

 

<Otabek>

11:32 pm: Also does not hurt that he’s disgustingly attractive.

 

<Yuri>

11:33 pm: ok ew and im done again. goodnight

 

<Otabek>

11:37 pm: Good night, Yura.

11:37 pm: Yuri*

 * * *

**yuri-plisetsky**

why. why. why would u do this IN PUBLIC. im trying to EAT here. #getaroomjerks #antivalentines

**272 likes**

 

**otabek-altin**

:) #paris #valentinesdate #swisschocolate

**156 likes**

 

**yuri-plisetsky**

my nights gonna be better than all of urs anyway #puttingatuxedoonmycat #catsofinstagram

**249 likes**

* * *

<Yuri>

3:25 pm: so

3:25 pm: how was ur date

 

<Otabek>

3:48 pm: For someone who doesn’t want to talk about it, you sure bring it up a lot…

3:49 pm: And it was nice.

 

<Yuri>

3:50 pm: morbid curiosity

3:50 pm: just nice??

 

<Otabek>

3:54 pm: Did my heart sing the moment I saw him walk into the restaurant? No.

3:54 pm: Did my knees tremble at any point? No.

3:55 pm: Am I overcome with a need to be near him at all times? No.

3:55 pm: So it was just nice, yes.

3:55 pm: Probably not repeating it though, unless we’re both desperate again someday.

 

<Yuri>

3:58 pm: so did u kiss him

 

<Otabek>

3:59 pm: Yes.

 

<Yuri>

3:59 pm: WHY

 

<Otabek>

4:01 pm: Because kissing is fun.

4:01 pm: Did you go out?

 

<Yuri>

4:04 pm: thats gross youre gross

4:04 pm: no i did not, i hate vday

4:05 pm: all that squishy romance bullshit

 

<Otabek>

4:10 pm: Haha. I like squishy romance bullshit though.

4:11 pm: Don’t tell anyone. I have an image to maintain.

 

<Yuri>

4:11 pm: ill take ur secret to the grave

 

<Otabek>

4:13 pm: You’re a good friend.

 

<Yuri>

4:16 pm: dont tell anyone

4:16 pm: i have an image to maintain too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was it a real typo or did Otabek backpedal? the world may never know
> 
> HC forever that Yuri is an unrepentant double/triple-texter.
> 
> and hahaha holy shit is this seriously the only fic tagged Otabek/Chris?? yikes. LOOK, I DON'T KNOW, I DID NOT PLAN THAT. THEY RAN OFF WITHOUT MY PERMISSION.


	2. terrible, awful, stupid ideas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey,” Yuri says, proud of how cool and collected he sounds.
> 
> Otabek smiles that tiny smile he saves for events such as skating a solid routine, winning a medal, or—apparently—seeing Yuri for the first time in three months. “Hey yourself.”
> 
> (Worlds 2017 and a birthday present, and the miscommunication continues.)

**MARCH**

**yuri-plisetsky**

look at this fuckin TIGER CAKE!!! #sweet16 #catsruledogsdrool

**637 likes**

* * *

<Otabek>

4:26 am: Happy birthday!!

 

<Yuri>

7:02 am: aww u think of me when u wake up?

 

<Otabek>

7:59 am: Only on your birthday. Treasure it.

 

<Yuri>

8:07 am: oh i will

8:10 am: skype later?

 

<Otabek>

8:11 am: Definitely. :)

 

It’s late in the day when Yuri finally gets a free moment to call Otabek.

“So what’d you do today?” Otabek asks.

Yuri hides a smile behind his hand. “Well, I came home from practice to a dumb surprise party Victor planned. It was terrible. So many people. So many presents. _So much cake_.”

“Wow, yeah, that sounds absolutely unbearable,” Otabek deadpans. “So sorry you had to suffer on your birthday, of all days. What a beautiful soul, gone to waste, tarnished by the affections of—”

“Oh, shut up,” Yuri says, rolling his eyes. “I guess today was okay.”

* * *  
****

**yuri-plisetsky**

omw to worldssss #Aeroflot #allidoiswin #worldsdomination

**826 likes**

* * * 

<Otabek>

12:48 pm: Are you at the hotel yet?

 

<Yuri>

12:55 pm: checked in a little bit ago

12:56 pm: room 348 come say hi

 

<Otabek>

1:09 pm: Still at baggage claim, but I’ll be there soon!

 

The knock on Yuri’s door is soft but confident, five quick raps, and Yuri flies to open it. Grasping the latch, he takes a couple of deep breaths—this is no big deal, really—then pulls it open. “Hey,” he says, proud of how cool and collected he sounds.

Otabek smiles that tiny smile he saves for events such as skating a solid routine, winning a medal, or—apparently—seeing Yuri for the first time in three months. “Hey yourself.”

“Congratulations on Four Continents,” Yuri says. “Bronze, wow. Kazakhstan must be losing its mind.”

Otabek’s smile broadens. “Basically. I’m in _all_ of the magazines, even the ones that have nothing to do with sports. I’m just happy skating is getting more popular. Hey, you were amazing at Europeans! I didn’t miss any of it.”

Yuri suddenly finds his own shoes very interesting. “So do you want to come in?”

“Yeah, I have something for you.” Otabek slips past Yuri into the room and sets his backpack down on the desk. He rummages in it for a moment, then pulls out a large parcel roughly wrapped in brown paper and packing tape. “Sorry—it was kind of last-minute and they didn’t have anything better to wrap it. Happy birthday, though...”

“You—got me—wow, thank you.” Yuri takes the package and rips it open, and out tumbles a life-sized stuffed cat. Which just so happens to look exactly like Koshka. He gives up on being cool and collected. “This is _awesome_ ,” he says, squeezing the cat to his chest. “I can’t believe you found Koshka’s twin!”

“You post so many pictures of your cat, and when I saw this one, I just thought you should have it.”

“Thanks,” Yuri says again. Otabek is practically glowing right now, as much as Otabek ever glows, and his jacket does nothing to hide his broad shoulders, and his hair is artfully mussed, and Yuri is struck by several bad ideas in a row.

Thankfully he’s saved by another knock at the door. Yuri hurries to open it, and he barely has a chance to see who it is before he’s being yanked into an enormous hug by one Victor Nikiforov. “Yurio!” Victor shouts. “You made it!”

“Why wouldn’t I make it?” Yuri answers, smothered against Victor’s chest. He shoves at Victor until he’s released. “Can’t let you relax after Europeans.”

“Oh!” Victor has noticed Yuri’s guest. “Let’s see, you are… Otabek Altin, _da_? I remember you, you heartstopper. Would have swept me off my feet, only…” His eyes go sort of shiny. “Yuuri beat you to it.”

“Oh my god,” Yuri says. “Victor, go away.”

Victor’s jaw drops, and he looks back and forth between them, eyes narrowing. “Wait, Yurio, is this what I think it is? Is this a… _date_?” He says that last word in a stage whisper, as if Otabek isn’t _right there_ , hearing every embarrassing word.

“Don’t call me Yurio! And _no, it is not!_ ” Yuri throws Stuffed Koshka at Victor’s face, but Victor catches her.

“How adorable—where’d you get this?”

Otabek gives a small wave as Yuri mutters, “Birthday present.”

“Goodness.” Victor examines Stuffed Koshka closely. “Wow, she looks just like your real cat. I think _someone’s_ been paying close attention to you.” He narrows his eyes at Otabek once more.

Yuri is going to kill him. “What do you want, anyway?”

“I have been sent to request your presence at dinner with the other skaters at 7 pm at the restaurant across the street. Otabek, you are _more_ than welcome to join us!”

“That sounds great,” Otabek says, before Yuri can give any kind of reason why he shouldn’t come too. “Yuri, you’re going, right?”

“Sure, yeah,” Yuri grits out. “Of course I’m going.”

“Good.” Victor winks at them. “Well, I’ll see myself out! I don’t want to intrude on your privacy any longer!” He whisks out the door, and it slams closed. Yuri wants to slam his head against it—four, maybe five times.

Otabek whistles low. “Force of nature, isn’t he?”

“He’s a fucking hurricane,” Yuri growls. “What do you want to do until dinner?”

“I’m going to unpack later, so if you want to hang out now…?”

“Yeah,” Yuri says, mustering all the nonchalance he can manage. “Wanna watch all the best skating falls on YouTube? There’s a great montage about Victor I know.” He flops down on the bed and opens his laptop.

“Sounds fantastic.” Otabek joins him on the bed, hardly any space between them.

For a moment Yuri’s mind goes blank, but he manages to shake that off and press _play_. The bed is small, the laptop screen is small, of _course_ Otabek is practically smashed up against him. There is absolutely no other reason and he’s got to stop thinking of so many terrible, awful, stupid ideas.

 * * *

They’re a little late to dinner, and the only seats left are between Katsuki and Chris. Yuri takes one look at that and pounces on the seat next to Katsuki. Otabek takes the other seat.

“Hi!” Chris says, mostly to Otabek.

The little smile is _back_. Otabek looks _happy_. “Hi,” he says. “How are you?”

“Better now that _you’re_ here,” Chris says, winking.

Yuri wonders whether you can kill someone by glaring, and if so, how long it takes before they drop fucking dead.

Across the table, J.J. hoots. “Lovebirds!” he says. “Get a room!”

“Already did,” Chris says, bumping his shoulder into Otabek’s. “Care to join me in it later, beautiful?”

“Oh, lay off,” Otabek says, but he hasn’t stopped smiling. Phichit’s phone flash goes off, and just like that, his stupid smile and Chris’s _stupider_ smile are immortalized on Instagram.

“Cuuuute!” Phichit declares. “When did this happen?”

“February,” Chris says, just as Otabek says, “It didn’t.” They stare at each other for a second, then Chris bursts out laughing. “Okay, okay, he’s not wrong. It’s not a _thing_. Don’t worry, my friends, Otabek Altin is still a _very_ eligible bachelor.”

 

<Yuri>

7:17 pm: wtf otabek

 

<Otabek>

7:23 pm: ???

 

<Yuri>

7:24 pm: all that w/ chris? what

 

<Otabek>

7:25 pm: It’s nothing.

 

<Yuri>

7:26 pm: doesnt seem like he thinks its nothing

 

<Otabek>

7:28 pm: I guarantee he thinks it’s nothing.

7:28 pm: Why are you so worried?

 

<Yuri>

7:29 pm: im not worried!!

 

Everyone’s food arrives just then, which is wonderful, since Otabek now has to concentrate on something other than Chris, and Chris has to stop fucking talking for awhile.

Forty-five minutes of dinner, dessert, and chit-chat later, Yuri can’t take it any longer.

 

<Yuri>

8:13 pm: wanna get out of here and check out helsinki?

 

He sees Otabek’s phone light up in his lap. He sees Otabek look down and read the screen. He sees the tiny frown that passes across Otabek’s face. But Otabek doesn’t answer for almost ten minutes.

 

<Otabek>

8:21 pm: :( I’ve actually got plans after dinner, I’m sorry.

 

<Yuri>

8:21 pm: with chris?

 

<Otabek>

8:22 pm: Yes.

8:22 pm: Hang out tomorrow though?

 

<Yuri>

8:23 pm: yeah. fine.

 

There doesn’t seem to be anything left to do now except scrape his chair back from the table—everyone looks up; everyone’s looking at him—and stand up. “I’m beat, guys,” he says, stretching his arms and yawning grandly. “See you all tomorrow.” He doesn’t look at Otabek at all.

As he crosses the street to return to the hotel, regret worms its way into his stomach, cold and heavy. He wants to go back, wants to say goodbye to Otabek at least, but doing so would only draw more attention. All he can do is go straight to his room, where the fucking stuffed cat is waiting on his bed, of course.

He shoves it onto the floor, where it can’t look so accusing, and curls up on top of the blankets. He’s not sleepy at all, but he can’t think what else to do. What would he have done in the years before he met Otabek? Followed Victor around like a puppy, probably. Well, that’s not _any_ better than lying alone in his room staring at the ceiling.

After awhile, unwisely, he checks Instagram.

 

**otabek-altin**

The night beckons. #helsinki #partnersincrime

 

It’s a selfie taken just outside the restaurant, illuminated only by a streetlight, and Chris’s fucking arm is around Otabek’s waist.

Which wouldn’t be so bad except for the smirk on Chris’s face, a look that says _I have something you don’t have_.

_Fuck_ both of them.

* * * 

Except for the usual greetings, Yuri and Otabek don’t talk at practice the next morning. Yuri pretends he’s too sleep-deprived to do anything other than skate, and Otabek lets him pretend.

Yuri takes first place in the short, eclipsing Katsuki and even Victor. Otabek is far behind in fourth, and as for Chris… Yuri doesn’t know his score, because Yuri doesn’t care.

Otabek finds him afterward. “Did you still want to hang out tonight?” His words are punctuated with weird pauses. Since when is Otabek ever uncertain?

Yuri’s pride tells him to shut Otabek out; the memory of that frozen, clawing regret from last night forces him to do otherwise. “Yeah,” he says, a little grudgingly. “What do you wanna do?”

* * *

On purpose, they get lost, leaving their phones hidden deep in the pockets of their coats, wandering up and down the streets, going nowhere in particular. Streetlights lay down pools of golden light; as they pass through, their shadows condense and disappear, only to stretch out again on the other side. The pavement, damp from melting snow, shines as if polished. Strands of lights criss-cross the streets high above, webs strung with stars to trap their gaze.

Otabek ducks into a café, telling Yuri to wait, and returns to press a cup of hot chocolate into his hands. “This should warm you up,” he says.

“I wasn’t cold,” Yuri mutters.

The sound Otabek makes in response is somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Okay, Yuri.”

They don’t talk about Chris. They don’t talk about skating. Nothing deep, nothing dangerous. They float uneasily on the dark face of unexplored waters, sticking to the blander subjects of Helsinki’s architecture, comparisons of the winter nightlife to St. Petersburg and Almaty, and other such topics they will not remember in the weeks afterward.

Far too soon, they turn a corner and the hotel rises up before them, their familiar and temporary home. Inside, at the elevator doors, Yuri draws a deep breath and taps at Otabek’s sleeve. “Do you want to come up to my room?”

“Sure,” Otabek says. “It’s still pretty early.”

A swarm of butterflies bursts into Yuri’s chest. This is how it works, right?

In his room, Yuri throws his coat on the armchair and kicks his shoes off. Otabek follows suit.

And this is as far ahead as Yuri has thought. _Say something, do something,_ he begs himself, but his body won’t follow his commands.

“More videos, do you think?” Otabek asks. “Or a movie?”

Silent, stricken, Yuri nods. The words to clear up the misunderstanding can’t find their way to his tongue, dammed up by his miserable panic. Or—and this is a distinct possibility—Otabek has in fact guessed what Yuri meant and is cutting him off.

Either way, he’s stuck again with Otabek nestled next to him, staring at a screen, unable to focus on whatever it is they end up watching. When Otabek finally says he’s going to head back to his room to sleep, it’s a relief.

 * * *

**yuri-plisetsky**

ill see you tmrw nikiforov #worldsdomination

* * *

They don’t plan to warm up together before the long program; they just happen to be in the same hallway and don’t mind each other’s company.

It’s almost time for their group to be called, and Otabek is one of the first skaters. “Well, good luck out there,” Yuri tells him.

“You too. Hey—” And suddenly Otabek is reaching for him, and Yuri freezes as his hand comes to rest on Yuri’s cheek. He swipes his thumb over a spot just under Yuri’s left eye. “Sorry, you had some mascara…” 

“Thanks,” Yuri chokes out, the spot burning as if Otabek’s thumb had branded him there. He forces himself to breathe evenly. “See you after.”

“Otabek!” And here comes fucking Chris, swaying his fucking hips down the goddamn hallway like he’s about to give someone a lapdance. “I had to come wish you luck.” He gets right into Otabek’s space, towering over him, and Yuri waits for Otabek to push him away, because since when does Otabek get up close and personal with just anybody? But Otabek just makes that stupid little smile again and looks up at Chris through his eyelashes. And Chris kisses him on the _fucking_ mouth.

Yuri’s lucky they’re standing just far enough away that they don’t hear all the air leaving his lungs at once.

His program does not go well. That’s putting it kindly: what happens is that he fucks up. A lot. His rhythm’s off, he tilts in the air on his jumps and barely hangs onto his landings, and he actually _falls_ once. On a _triple toe loop._ Whatever emotion he’s meant to be displaying for this music, all that’s coming out is breathless anger and lurching doubt. Both Victor _and_ Katsuki beat him, and it’s only thanks to his short program score that he manages to snag a silver medal instead of bronze or nothing at all.

During the ceremony, Victor and Katsuki keep _looking_ at him, like they know something, but of course they can’t know anything. He hasn’t _said_ anything. What is there to say? He smiles to dazzle the crowd, the reporters; he smiles to conceal everything that cannot, must not come to the surface.

 

There’s one final episode of torture to survive, and that’s the gala afterparty. He arrives late, hoping to slip in unnoticed, which means he manages to walk in on Chris and Otabek dancing together. Too close together. Whispering. Practically _giggling_ at each other. Yuri ducks into a corner and nabs someone’s mostly-full champagne glass off a table.

Of all the annoying people who could find him in his hiding place, it has to be J.J. who saunters up to him. “You should be out there having fun!” J.J. says.

“No thank you,” Yuri says stiffly. “I’m good right here.”

J.J. follows his gaze, landing right on Otabek and Chris. “Ohhh,” he says. “I see what’s happening here.”

“No, you don’t.” Yuri downs the champagne and slaps the glass onto a table. “You have no fucking idea.” He turns to face J.J. “But by all means, tell me your ludicrous theories.”

J.J. folds his arms. “You’ve got it bad for your friend over there. Don’t you?”

“You’re way fucking off base, J.J.”

“You think? Consider the evidence.” J.J. starts ticking off items on his fingers. “From what I can tell, you’ve barely taken your eyes off him all weekend. Wherever he is, there you are. You get angry every time Chris is within ten feet of him, and—”

“I just hate Chris!” Yuri bursts out. “I don’t have a crush on Otabek!” He starts to back away, bumps into someone, and looks over his shoulder.

Otabek is standing right behind him.

Yuri whips back around to face J.J. “You could have said—”

“That he was coming over to find you? Sure, but since you don’t have a crush, why does it matter?”

“Oh my god, _stop_ , just _stop_ —” Yuri is _this_ close to committing actual physical violence, but Otabek lays a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, J.J., I know it’s fun to mess with him, but I think he’s done playing now. Okay?” Otabek says, quietly but firmly.

J.J. puts his hands up in mock surrender. “It's cool, I hear you. I’ll take my leave now.”

Yuri turns back to Otabek, swallowing hard. “Uh. Hi.”

“Hi,” Otabek says. “Thank you for not killing him. It would suck to get arrested in Finland. I’d have to get you bailed out, call your grandfather, call _Victor_ …”

“Oh, shut up,” Yuri grumbles, and the banter is _almost_ back to the normal level except that _goddamn Chris_ cannot keep his nose out of anything, and is walking up behind Otabek as if he was invited. Which he was not. “Go away,” Yuri snarls.

“Goodness,” Chris says. “I’m just here to tell you that you should cut in now. I’ve gotta catch my breath.”

“Cut in?—”

“Dance,” Chris explains patiently. “Go dance.” He pushes lightly at Otabek’s back, who takes a step forward to catch his balance. Otabek is laughing again. Yuri hates so much that Chris can make him laugh like that.

“Yeah, that sounds fun. How about it?” Otabek says. “Want to dance, Yuri?”

And Yuri is agreeing to this for some reason, agreeing to be led out onto a dance floor, agreeing to let Otabek hold his hand, his waist, in front of _people_ , and the proximity may give him an actual heart attack.

It only gets worse when the music slows and the lights dim, and something soft and gentle and horrible spills out of the speakers. “Sorry, I didn’t know they were gonna play the squishy romance bullshit theme song,” Otabek says, moving them carefully to the side of the dance floor where there aren’t as many people. “I did want to talk to you, though.”

“What about?” Yuri asks. He counts the beat in his head, refusing to suck at dancing as much as he sucked at the long program.

Otabek’s hand tightens on his waist. “I was wondering. What J.J. said. Is any of it true?”

“Why would you think _anything_ that jackass says is true?” God, the room is hot. Someone needs to open a fucking window.

“You’ve been acting strange lately, that’s all. So I wanted to check. I’m sorry for making you have this really awkward conversation, though.”

“No problem,” Yuri says, heart thundering. “Like I told him—I just really, really don’t like Chris.”

“I did gather that,” Otabek says. “But—I do like him, a bit. Not enough to turn it into, you know, a _thing_. And you’re my best friend, and I don’t want to make you unhappy, but is it wrong that I want to spend time with someone who feels that way about me? It’s temporary, it’s fun, neither of us expects anything from it. Can’t that be okay?”

Yuri looks over his shoulder at Chris, who has landed at Victor’s table and is saying something to Katsuki that’s making him turn bright red.

Otabek stops moving and pulls Yuri close, wrapping his free arm around Yuri’s shoulders, tilting his head down to speak softly into Yuri’s ear. “I promise I’m not trying to replace you.”

Placated, Yuri leans into the hug. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

“Good,” Otabek says, as the music switches to something fast and pounding. “Now, I could go get Chris again, but I’d really like it if you danced with me properly. What do you think?”

Yuri thinks he can manage that.

 * * *

It’s one thing to say goodbye knowing the next competition is in a few months. It’s another entirely when the season is ending. Yuri hugs Otabek so hard that he grunts. “You’d better qualify next fall, asshole. I want to see you at the Final.”

Otabek leans his cheek against Yuri’s hair. “I wouldn’t dream of missing it.”

“Text me. Skype me. You know, whatever. Just stay in touch.”

“Yura.” Otabek draws back slightly to look him in the eyes. “Do you think I’ll forget about you?”

“It’s happened to me before,” Yuri says. “Wait, what’d you just call me?”

“Oh—” Otabek rubs the back of his neck, looking off to the side. 

Yuri punches him in the shoulder. “I _knew_ that wasn’t a typo in your phone.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“Wait, no,” Yuri says quickly. “I like it.”

“Yeah? Okay then, Yura, I’ll see you next season.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • Y'all said you wanted a longer chapter, and I aim to please.
> 
> • This Chris/Otabek thing is turning into a thing I actually ship, what the fuck? Stay tuned; I'm absolutely writing a side oneshot about their Magical Night Together. (Hint: it's porn with feelings)
> 
> • Thanks for reading and come say hello to [me @ tumblr](https://meimagino.tumblr.com)!


	3. a little hung up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Show me!” Yuri demands.
> 
> “Sure, one second.” Otabek always tapes his practices, and Yuri’s expecting to receive a video file, but instead Otabek gets up off his bed and turns the laptop to face the rest of his room.
> 
> Otabek is barefoot and wearing only black pajama pants that hang low on his hips, and Yuri makes a small noise that he covers with a cough. “You’re going to actually _do_ it right now?”

**APRIL**

Back in St. Petersburg, Yuri throws himself into practicing. The Olympics are coming next year, and crushing Victor’s score there will make everyone forget forever about his disgraceful Worlds performance. Already he’s scribbling new program ideas in a notebook to show Yakov.

“I’m sending you a link,” Yuri tells Otabek during one of their Skype chats before they sleep. “I want to use it for my free skate—tell me what you think?”

Otabek has kept his promise to stay in touch, and their Skype chats now happen two or three times a week. “I’ll listen right now,” Otabek says, and the music floats back to Yuri from Otabek’s bedroom in Almaty, tinny through the laptop speakers. Otabek leans back against the pillows on his bed, closes his eyes, and doesn’t move a muscle until the song ends. “It’s perfect,” he says.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“Of course I mean it, Yura. It suits you. I can’t wait to see the program you create.”

By now Yuri’s gotten used to the nickname, since it slips out at least once every time they talk. Otabek doesn’t seem to be planning when he’s going to say it; it’s natural and comfortable and sends tiny sparks buzzing down Yuri’s arms and legs whenever he hears it. “Do you know what you want to do next season?” he asks.

Otabek rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “God, I have no idea. I’m going through so much music and none of it feels right. I did come up with some choreography—I just don’t have a piece of music to match it.”

“Show me!” Yuri demands.

“Sure, one second.” Otabek always tapes his practices, and Yuri’s expecting to receive a video file, but instead Otabek gets up off his bed and turns the laptop to face the rest of his room.

Otabek is barefoot and wearing only black pajama pants that hang low on his hips, and Yuri makes a small noise that he covers with a cough. “You’re going to actually _do_ it right now?”

“Why not?” Otabek shakes out his hands and rolls his neck around, loosening up a bit. “It’s just some dance moves. No point planning out technical elements until I have music. Remember this is really rough, though, okay?”

Yuri’s never seen him move like this before, body rolling smooth as ocean waves, dimly lit by the bedside lamp. For a time it’s as though Otabek’s dancing with an invisible lover, pulling them close to his chest; then a motion like he’s tearing out his own heart, agony exposed in his hands; and by the time he stops, breathing hard, Yuri’s eyes are stinging. He blinks fast, collecting himself. It feels, somehow, like he’s just seen Otabek naked. “When did you learn to do _that_?” he asks.

Otabek settles himself back in bed. “I’ve been thinking about _Agape_ lately, and I wondered how it’d feel to do something completely different from my usual programs. So I asked my instructor to show me some modern dance stuff. Was it okay?”

“What the fuck, Otabek, it was fucking _awesome_ , how do you not know that already?”

“It’s easier to know it if I hear it from someone else. And I trust your opinion.”

Yuri points at the screen. “So help me, if you don’t send me a tape of you skating that, I will come down there and _find you_.”

Otabek is silent for a long moment. Then, “Do you want to?” he asks, so quiet Yuri almost can’t make out the words.

“Want to what?”

“Come down here. To Almaty. To visit me. You could see it in person.”

“Yes,” Yuri says immediately. This is _way_ better than waiting until the fall. “Yes, I want to come see you.”

“Okay,” Otabek says. “Cool. Hey, have you ever gone camping?”

“Sure,” Yuri says. “One time my grandpa and I stayed in a cabin in Siberia.”

“Wait. Was there electricity at this cabin?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t there be?”

Otabek snickers. “That is not camping. I think I should show you the real thing.”

“What, like—” Yuri wrinkles his nose. “In a tent?”

“Yes, in a tent. In the mountains. God, it’s gorgeous—I can’t even describe it, you have to come see it for yourself.”

“I don’t think I’m someone who camps,” Yuri tells him.

“You’re someone who _hasn’t_ camped, that’s all.”

“Sure you don’t wanna take Chris instead?”

Otabek sighs. “Yuri. Come on. Chris is great but he’s…not my friend, exactly, and I want to go with my _friend_.”

Yuri chews on his lip. “Okay,” he says slowly. “I’m in. When should I come?”

“End of June? Can you get four or five days away from the rink? I’ll send you a list of what to bring.”

That night, if Yuri dreams of a soft-lit boy dancing like his heart is breaking, if he dreams of impossible confidence and closing the distance between them, if he dreams of skin and tongues and hands…it’s no one’s business but his.

* * *

“Yurochka? What are you doing?”

Yuri, covered in flour in the kitchen, looks up guiltily. “Grandpa, hi! I didn’t hear you come home…”

Grandpa surveys the countertops (also covered in flour), the bowls of browned meat and chopped vegetables, the pot of hot oil on the stove. “Pirozhki, hmm?”

“I’m showing my friend how.” Yuri nods toward his laptop, which is stationed out of danger on top of a stack of cookbooks. “That’s Otabek.”

Otabek waves. “Hello!” He’s in his own kitchen—with slightly less flour everywhere—copying Yuri as he works.

“Hello,” Grandpa says, waving back. “So you are interested in Russian cooking?”

“I’m interested in delicious food,” Otabek says. “And Yuri talks about pirozkhi on a daily basis.”

“I do _not_ ,” Yuri says.

“I have the texts to prove it,” Otabek tells Grandpa, who smiles.

“I do not doubt it. Yurochka, you want that oil a little bit hotter—but these look beautiful.” He pats Yuri on the shoulder. “I’m going to watch the end of Zenit’s game, but when that is over, would you like to go for a walk with me? The weather’s lovely today.”

“Yeah, of course,” Yuri says, smiling at his grandfather. “ _Davai_ Zenit!”

Grandpa heads for the living room to switch on the television, and Yuri turns back to the stove.

“So now we’ll fry them, okay?” He gently places the pirozhki into the oil, where they sizzle and turn golden and fill the kitchen with a mouthwatering smell. Otabek repeats the action.

“Oh my god, I am going to eat every single one of these _today_ ,” Otabek says, peering into his pot of oil. “I’ll never skate again. I’ll just stay in my apartment and make pirozhki all day long.”

“No!” Yuri clutches at his chest. “I can’t be known as the one who ruined the hero of Kazakhstan!”

“It’s too late. I’m done for. How many more competitors will you reduce to ashes by way of your secret family recipes?”

“You caught me,” Yuri says. “Committing sabotage by feeding people, that’s my strategy.”

The football game in the other room is turned up loud and Grandpa’s shouting _davai, davai!_ , so Zenit must be having a good day. There’s no chance he’ll wander into the kitchen right now, and Yuri’s got a burning question.

“So,” he says, turning over the pirozhki so he doesn’t have to look at the camera, “have you seen Chris lately?”

“No—he’s dating someone now, last I heard.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s no big deal. I’m not upset or anything.”

Yuri chances a quick look at the screen. Otabek really doesn’t look very devastated. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

The words catch in his throat, prickly as burdock. “Are you—dating anyone?”

Otabek drags his fingers through his hair, sighing. “I can’t do that right now.”

Let it go, he should just let it go. But Yuri gives in to the nauseating curiosity. “Why not?”

“I’m just—” Otabek bites at his lower lip. “—A little hung up on someone. It wouldn’t be fair.”

God, how many people is he chasing after? Yuri barely manages not to roll his eyes. “Wow, I never knew you were such a playboy.” It comes out meaner than he intended, and a sudden silence grows between them, a bramble-thicket ready to draw blood.

“That’s not fair,” Otabek says quietly. “And you know it.”

Yuri starts lifting the pirozhki out of the pot, laying them on paper towels. He’s moving quickly, carelessly, and one slips and drops back into the oil, splashing his arm. “ _Ahh_ ,” he gasps, and hurries to the sink to run cold water over the burn. Even so, red blooms across his skin in dots and smears of screaming pain, and he clenches his teeth, trying not to cry out.

“Are you okay?” Otabek asks, in that same quiet voice.

“Yeah, fine,” Yuri says between gritted teeth. He’s supposed to apologize, he knows this, but doing so has never come easily to him. It’s always as if he’s swimming through muddy water, eyes wide open, searching through the muck for jumbled fragments, something filthy but fragile to offer helplessly, hopelessly, to one who deserves nothing less than gold.

Otabek is staring at him with worried eyes. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”

“This isn’t your fault,” Yuri tells him. “It was an accident.”

And that’s as far as he manages to get before there’s ear-splitting whooping from the living room, and then Grandpa practically dances into the kitchen, shouting about the best team he’s seen in his _life_ , and Yuri doesn’t know what he’s _missed_ , and there’s nothing to do but say goodbye to Otabek and try to match Grandpa’s celebratory mood.

The weather _is_ beautiful, the first truly mild day since the end of winter, and Yuri breathes deeply of the damp and leafy air. He’s still rattled from the unresolved tension between him and Otabek, but maybe a little exercise will help.

Grandpa reels off a play-by-play of the game, and Yuri tries to smile in all the right places, but his grandfather is too perceptive for that. “What’s wrong, Yurochka?”

“Nothing,” Yuri says, shoving his hands deep in his jacket pockets. “Wow, it’s so warm today.”

“Mm,” Grandpa agrees. “Did you have a nice talk with your friend?”

Damn it, Yuri’s been seen through. “Sure,” he says, unwilling to say more before he knows where this is going.

“Where does he live?”

“Almaty.”

“That’s a little far, isn’t it?”

“Grandpa, I compete internationally. I know people from all over the world.”

“Distance can make things hard sometimes, that’s all. I know I’m an old man, and I may not understand everything, but I will always listen to you and do my best. I want you to be happy.”

Yuri glances sideways at his grandfather. “I _am_ happy. What’s wrong with having a friend who lives far away? You don’t care that he’s Kazakh, do you?”

“No, no.” Grandpa makes a thoughtful little hum. “So he’s just your friend?”

Yuri groans. “Oh my god. Yes, he’s just my friend. What did you think?”

“Only that he strikes me as a very nice young man.” Grandpa reaches over and ruffles Yuri’s hair. “And the two of you seem close. I’m glad you have such a good friend.”

A good friend who downloads apps he hates just because Yuri asked him to. Who glows in lamplight, setting off a bomb in Yuri’s chest. Who’s always there, yet never close enough. “Yeah, me too,” Yuri says, and thankfully Grandpa drops the subject then.

* * *

**otabek-altin**

Just found this photo…missing #Helsinki tonight.

 

The picture is blurry, taken too quickly or with shaking hands. Strings of lights smear across the image like watercolors. Some street in Helsinki, apparently—Yuri remembers those lights. But he can’t help but roll his eyes at the maudlin caption. Missing Helsinki? Missing a douchebag Swiss skater is more like it.

It’s been a few days since the pirozhki and the…was it an argument? Did it last long enough to be one; was enough said? He doesn’t want it on his mind anymore—but there it sits anyway; a hunched, hulking thing that crouches on his chest at night, making his breath come short. This has happened to him before, and the crushing things never quite go away, but after awhile, he learns not to look at them anymore. And then it’s almost as if they aren’t there at all.

 

**MAY**

Brunch with Victor and Katsuki is another constant in Yuri’s life. On Saturday mornings Victor drives over to pick him up, and then the two of them stuff him with coffee and pancakes and eggs and syrniki. Today they’re oddly quiet as they prepare breakfast, until they’re all sitting down at the table and Victor clears his throat. “So, Yurio. Have you talked to Otabek at all since the Final?”

Yurio eyes Victor, stabbing a piece of kolbasa with his fork. “Sure,” he says. “We talk sometimes.”

“I _told_ you,” Victor hisses at Katsuki.

“Yes, yes.” Katsuki pats Victor’s knee. “You were right.”

“About _what_?” Yuri asks.

“Nothing!” they say in unison, too loudly. Seeing Yuri’s glare, Katsuki adds, “Victor just happened to notice that you and Otabek spent a lot of time together at Worlds.”

Yuri throws his fork down. It bounces across the table, scattering bits of egg. “Why is everyone on my back about him?”

“Sorry, I _know_ ,” Katsuki says. “Victor will leave you alone, _won’t you_ , Victor?”

Victor sips daintily at his coffee. “I’m only saying, Otabek couldn’t stop looking at him for two minutes—”

“ _Victor!_ ”

“It’s fine. He can talk till he chokes. I’m going home.” Snatching up his jacket, Yuri stalks out of their apartment. The worst part is that it’s not even true. If there was anyone Otabek had stared at for all of Worlds, it was fucking _Chris_.

* * *

<Yuri>

12:27 pm: would u help me get rid of a body

 

<Otabek>

12:34 pm: Yuri, what the fuck.

 

<Yuri>

12:36 pm: if i murder victor for being the most annoying piece of shit in all of russia

12:36 pm: would u help me hide the body

 

<Otabek>

12:39 pm: It’s a bit of a drive to St. Petersburg, but sure.

 

<Yuri>

12:40 pm: thats why ur my best friend

 

<Otabek>

12:42 pm: Oh, I’m your best friend now?

 

<Yuri>

12:42 pm: its not like im gonna spill my deep dark secrets to fucking VICTOR, otabek

 

<Otabek>

12:45 pm: What deep dark secrets?

 

<Yuri>

12:46 pm: murder. duh.

12:46 pm: once i kill victor anyway

* * *

**otabek-altin**

#IleAlatau takes my breath away. #wishyouwerehere

 

As always, Yuri’s flicking through Instagram before going to sleep. Otabek has just posted a shot looking over the handlebars of a motorcycle across a valley. Golden browns and faded greens drape the landscape like a velvet cloak, with an ice-blue river rushing through. In the distance are high steel-blue peaks, a patchwork of snow and stone, filigreed with clouds.

Strangely, looking at the photo twists Yuri’s insides into knots. Something like grief overwhelms him—all too soon, he’ll see those mountains for himself. This trip is going to happen…and then it’ll be over. He tips his head back against his pillow and takes deep breaths. How stupid is he, feeling this sickening sadness over an end that hasn’t yet arrived?

He opens his camera gallery and finds a picture Grandpa took of him during a recent trip to the botanical garden. It’s not breathtaking at all, and Yuri’s eyes are half-closed in it. But it’s late, and he’s tired, so he sticks to one tag and no caption.

 

**yuri-plisetsky**  
****

#wishyouwereheretoo

 

Not even thirty seconds later, the notification arrives: **_otabek-altin_** _liked your photo_. Yuri swallows hard, throat tight. He wants to be there _now_. At the same time, he wants to never go, because then he’ll have to say goodbye. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • WHO’S EXCITED FOR [OTAYURI WEEK](https://otayuriweek.tumblr.com)?? I KNOW I SURE AM. (Begins tomorrow! Seven prompts! Fic, art, or whatever else you like to do!)
> 
> • In case you missed it, I’ve added an interlude detailing Chris and Otabek’s date from chapter 2: [hit the wall](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9732563) (NSFW~). ;) 
> 
> • Writing this has given me so many new recipes to try, because pirozhki and syrniki look ridiculous and delicious and totally like things I could make…
> 
> • Wow none of these notes are actually about this chapter, oh well. You may submit your complaints to [me @ tumblr](https://meimagino.tumblr.com).


	4. tiny earthquakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The video is twenty-four seconds of impossibility, and it’s long past both of their bedtimes but Yuri can’t open Skype fast enough. “No fucking way,” he says, when Otabek’s face appears on the screen. “No fucking, fucking way.” [A.k.a.: in which they finally go camping. Take note that the rating has been raised and the tags have changed.]

**JUNE**

**From: Otabek Altin <** [ **otabek.altin@gmail.com** ](mailto:otabek.altin@gmail.com) **> **

To: Yuri Plisetsky <[sofakingyuri@gmail.com](mailto:sofakingyuri@gmail.com)>

Subject: (none)

Attachment: **look.mpg**

 

The video is twenty-four seconds of impossibility, and it’s long past both of their bedtimes but Yuri can’t open Skype fast enough. “No fucking way,” he says, when Otabek’s face appears on the screen. “No fucking, _fucking_ way.”

“I don’t know yet if I can use it. That was the first time I’ve ever landed a quad-quad combo. I might not be able to repeat it, let alone make it consistent enough for the Grand Prix.” But Otabek is grinning anyway. “But it’s pretty cool, right? ”

“Fucking _gorgeous_. Were you even touching the ice or did you just levitate?”

“I’ve got to find some way to beat you, don’t I?”

“In your _goddamn_ dreams, Altin.”

Otabek’s eyes go serious. “You set the bar so high, no one can touch it. But I still stand beneath it, wondering if I can reach it one day. Even if all I ever do is brush it with my fingertips.”

The lump in Yuri’s throat is back. “Oh,” he says, his voice faint.

“I love competing with you. Around you, I have to expand my belief of what’s—achievable—” Otabek’s suddenly cut off by an enormous yawn.

“You should probably go to sleep,” Yuri tells him.

They disconnect, and Yuri shuts off the lamp on his nightstand, curling up under the blankets. Koshka pads over to sleep on his pillow just above his head, like a fluffy purring hat. A few minutes pass, and then his screen lights up again, buzzing with a text.

_Hey, Yura?_

 

_yeah?_

 

_I can’t wait to see you._

Yuri stares at the message. He types “same” and deletes it. He types “me too” and deletes that as well. All he can think of are these useless little words, and none of them are right. None of them can get across that he’s been lying awake more and more at night now, thinking of the trip, dreading the point in time where they will have to break apart and go back to their everyday lives. Like ripping off a scab over and over.

In the end he mutes his phone and puts it facedown on the nightstand, then rolls over with his back to it. Koshka squeaks at the disturbance and makes as if to leave, but he pets her until she settles back down.

Otabek will just think he fell asleep. It’s fine.

* * *

Swept along in the line of people heading off the plane, Yuri tries to shake the fog out of his mind. He’s been awake since some god-awful hour this morning, so much earlier than he would _ever_ get up for practice. The inside of his mouth tastes sour, and the late afternoon sunlight pouring in the airport windows isn’t helping the headache he always gets when he flies.

“Yuri!” Otabek is leaning against a wall by the gate. “How was your flight?” he asks when Yuri reaches him.

“Don’t ask,” Yuri groans. “What day is it again?”

“Same day you left home, you nut. Come here.”

Otabek holds his hands out, and Yuri collapses into his arms with an enormous sigh. “Did you ride your motorcycle?”

“Actually, I thought after such a long trip, the bus might be easier on you. Plus I wasn’t sure how many bags you’d have. Why, are you disappointed?” Otabek hugs him a little harder.

“Why would I be disappointed?” Yuri scoffs.

“Don’t try that on me. I _know_ you liked riding it.”

Sure, but only because it was Otabek riding with him, not that Yuri’s going to say so. “Well, don’t worry, I’m not heartbroken or anything.” He wriggles free and straightens his shirt. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Otabek has this strange, soft look in his eyes that Yuri’s never seen there before. “I’m really happy you’re here, that’s all.”

* * *

“Holy. Shit.” Yuri’s mouth starts watering when he steps through the door of Otabek’s apartment. “That smells _amazing_.”

“Ah, it’s just beşbarmaq. I thought you might be hungry when you got here. Do you like lamb?”

Yuri makes a beeline for the kitchen to peer into the large pot bubbling on the stove. “Were you planning on eating any of that? Because I’ll literally fight you for it.”

“Eat all you like. Hey, make yourself comfortable—I’m going to shower and then I’ll make the noodles.” Otabek drops Yuri’s bags by the couch and disappears into the bathroom.

Alone, Yuri looks around. The living room is not much larger than the kitchen, and sparsely furnished with one couch, one low wooden table, and a flat-screen TV. Yuri kicks his shoes off and pads across the carpet—so soft he kind of wants to lie down right here, but the couch is more socially acceptable. It’s overstuffed and upholstered in velvety brown fabric, and Yuri sinks into it gratefully, stretching his arms and legs out as far as he can. All he can hear are the low hum of traffic in the street below and the water running in the shower. His body feels heavy and slow.

He awakens to Otabek gently shaking him by the shoulder. “Hi,” Otabek says. “I didn’t want to wake you until I finished cooking.” Otabek’s hair is messy and damp, barely touched with a towel, and Yuri starts when a drop of water hits his cheek.

Yuri’s still drowsy when they’re done eating, and Otabek fetches blankets and pillows and tucks him into bed on the couch, leaning over him, hands lingering a moment at Yuri’s shoulders. Yuri shuts his eyes quickly. He must always look at Otabek from a distance; he can’t let himself study the line of Otabek’s throat, the part of his lips, the delicate curve of his eyelids. When Yuri’s eyes are closed, he must be unable to picture Otabek’s face in perfect detail. It must always be slightly inexact, a sketch from memory viewed only from the corner of his eye. Or else he won’t _stop_ picturing it.

* * *

“Damn,” Yuri says softly, taking in the wall of mountains in the distance.

“It’s something, right?” Otabek busies himself locking and unloading the bike, letting Yuri take his time with the sight. “No matter how many times I come here, I never get tired of it.”

Before they left the apartment, Otabek had handed Yuri a mug of coffee before he’d even asked; but the caffeine’s wearing off now, leaving him in a lightheaded, half-dreaming state. Stepping onto the gravel and dirt path that leads into the hills, the same sort of enchantment he found in Helsinki brushes at the edges of his mind, a sensation like a small, soft animal winding around your ankles in the dark; or a silk scarf trailing over your naked skin.

Soon the rolling swell of the hills has enveloped them, an ocean of grass whispering on all sides, and Yuri shivers. He lost sight of the bike some time ago. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck, and it’s not long before his t-shirt is sticking to his skin. He scrapes his hair into a quick ponytail. At home, there’s always noise—cars whirring by in the street outside, people chattering, buses honking. Though _this_ place is not completely silent, Yuri’s never been this far away from other human beings. A massive loneliness squeezes at his heart, and he almost gasps. “How do you come out here by yourself?” he asks Otabek. “Aren’t you afraid?”

The disappearance of symbols of human activity doesn’t appear to have disturbed Otabek, who’s walking slightly ahead, his shoulders relaxed. Not in Almaty, and not even on a rink, has Otabek ever looked so comfortable. As if the mountains are stitched into him, always drawing him back, and skating’s just something he does to pass the time between trips to the wilderness. “Most of the time, I prefer being alone,” Otabek says, slowing his pace to walk shoulder to shoulder with Yuri. “Our lives revolve around what other people think of us. Out here, all that matters is what you expect of yourself. No one else’s opinion counts. I love skating, but sometimes I need a break from counting points and calories.”

“Yeah,” says Yuri, as if he knows what Otabek means. But Yuri’s never had a break like that, not since he can remember. Yakov wants him to medal, so he medals. Victor wants him to find his _agape_ , so he finds it. What he expects from himself _is_ what others expect from him, no separation. Being alone with Otabek is unnerving, he realizes, because Otabek doesn’t seem to have any preconceptions about how Yuri should act, who he should be.

Otabek’s looking at him, not quite smiling, but with a softness around his eyes and mouth. “You have plenty of time to figure out what you think about yourself. Don’t worry.”

Yuri walks a little faster, pulling ahead. “I wasn’t worrying.” The sun is killing him now, beating down on his skin like a million spotlights, showcasing every flaw in posture, every fault of expression. It seems that stamina in skating doesn’t translate into the ability to hike for miles, and the calluses from his skates are in all the wrong places and are no help against his boots, which are rubbing against any soft and vulnerable place on his feet they can find. He grits his teeth and puts the discomfort out of his mind; it’s just pain, and not the kind that means danger.

After a couple of hours, Otabek veers off the path into the dusty shade of a stand of trees.

Yuri follows. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just taking a break.” Otabek drops his pack on the ground and rubs his shoulders. “Drink some water, okay?”

“I _know_ ,” Yuri says. “You don’t have to baby me.”

“Sorry. Just wanted to—” Otabek shakes his head. “Never mind.” He tilts his head back and takes long swallows from his water bottle, eyes closed, pleasure evident on his face. What is it like, to enjoy a simple moment that way? Ecstasy, just from drinking fucking water. As if Otabek’s life is more than chasing the next gold, and the next, until the year he’ll place sixth and claim he won’t retire yet, but will quietly withdraw the following season and pop back up months later in some little failures-warmed-over ice show.

Yuri pulls his phone out of his pocket and aims the camera at Otabek, capturing his confused smile.

“You have service up here?”

“No,” Yuri says. “I just wanted a picture.” Just want to remember how you look when you’re completely happy, he doesn’t say.

“Ready to keep going? It’s only another hour or two.”

“Sure.” Yuri straps himself into his backpack once again, sore muscles protesting at the renewed load. In a way, this pain is pleasant: it’s out of the ordinary, these aches settling in parts of him he takes for granted.

They continue along, the path rising much more steeply now, the air slowly cooling to a bearable temperature. Yuri suspects Otabek of slowing their pace to accommodate Yuri’s inexperience, but he’s grudgingly grateful for it and says nothing. The throbbing in his feet has worsened considerably, and his socks are clammy with sweat. The shoe store had claimed these boots were well-ventilated, but that appears to have been a damn lie. Resolutely, he does not limp or grimace or show any other sign of weakness.

“Here,” Otabek says, stopping suddenly. “This is it.”

A wide plain of grassy land stretches out through a valley slashed into the mountainside. Yuri can hear running water, and there’s something very familiar—“You took a picture of this.”

Otabek smiles. “I wanted to show it to you for real. I almost always come to this spot.” He leads them across the plain to a small gouge in the land, a ring of bare dirt surrounded by rocks and blackened in the center, where he must have built many campfires.

Otabek is mostly the one who sets up the tent, Yuri standing where he’s directed and holding onto poles while Otabek does fucking origami with the fabric. As soon as the thing is stable, Yuri throws himself down in the grass, scrabbling at the laces of his boots, sighing in relief when he manages to yank them off and toss them aside, and—

“Whoa,” Otabek says, hurrying over to him. “You’re bleeding!”

Yuri stares at his feet. His socks are stained red at his heels and toes, and on the ball of one foot. “Oh,” he says dumbly.

Otabek kneels, having produced a small first-aid kit from somewhere. “Can I?” He gestures to Yuri’s feet.

Yuri nods, and gingerly, Otabek peels off the wet mess of his socks, frowning at the wounds underneath.

“You’ve got blisters all over. Why didn’t you say something?” Otabek’s dabbing antiseptic on his feet; Yuri hisses at the sting. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I know.” Otabek pats awkwardly at Yuri’s ankle.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Yuri says quietly. It seems like an idiotic decision now, with his ragged, bloody, sweaty feet in Otabek’s lap. He doesn’t know how Otabek isn’t totally disgusted, because even Yuri is grossed out right now. He can’t help but tense the muscles in his legs, unable to relax into Otabek’s gentle touch.

“Like you could ever bother me.” Otabek presses bandages onto the raw places, the pain lessening instantly as the exposed nerves are shielded. When he’s done, he doesn’t let go right away. Instead he presses his thumbs into the arches of Yuri’s feet, first one and then the other, and Yuri could almost cry from how good that feels. He looks Yuri dead in the eye. “Next time, tell me when something hurts.”

Yuri swallows, fighting the urge to rip his feet out of Otabek’s hands. “Okay,” he promises. “I’ll tell you.”

The problem is, it hurts all the time.

* * *

After sunset, they spread blankets on the ground near the fire Otabek has built and lie down beside each other. The temperature dropped sharply once the daylight vanished, but Yuri is snug and warm in a spare sweatshirt of Otabek’s. Sure, he remembered to bring his own, but…Otabek had offered it, and it’s bigger and softer and just _better_. Above them hangs a canopy of glittering black velvet, more stars than Yuri’s ever seen in his life. Otabek lists off a few constellations Yuri’s heard of but never found before. “And there’s Leo.” Otabek points. “Which you should love on the basis of name alone.”

The scatter of stars doesn’t look anything like a lion to Yuri, but he smiles anyway at the thought of a huge cat prowling the sky, maybe hunting Cygnus or fleeing Draco’s fire.

The firelight flickers like curious fingers over Otabek’s legs, his throat, his face; his skin shines bronze. Yuri should still be looking at the sky, but.

Otabek turns his head and catches Yuri staring. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Yuri says, but there’s something about nighttime that creates more possibility, imbues one with dizzying courage, and despite being caught, he doesn’t turn away.

Otabek’s face is just centimeters from his. “Yura…” The sigh of his name breezes across Yuri’s face, and Otabek doesn’t quite close his mouth after it, gazing like Yuri’s some kind of natural wonder, something as beautiful as the mountains, but that’s ridiculous. And it’s hopeless: Yuri will never forget how Otabek looks in this moment; will lie awake back home with this image floating in his mind, every little detail.

Yuri doesn’t mean to, he really doesn’t, but he can’t think of consequences just now, and Otabek makes a startled little gasp when Yuri kisses him—it’s barely even a kiss, more of a peck really, a nervous brush of lips.

And even though he was the instigator, Yuri flings himself backward as if burned. He can’t read Otabek’s expression at all. Shock, anger, discomfort—he’d believe any of those reactions. He rolls onto his side, his back to Otabek, drawing his knees to his chest. He can feel it when Otabek shifts behind him to sit upright.

“I thought…” Otabek touches his shoulder.

Yuri jerks away. He’d rather get the rejection over with, not be consoled like a crying child.

“Yura. You said you didn’t—I thought you didn’t feel that way.”

Yuri twists his fingers into the fringe of the blanket. “I didn’t want to fuck it up,” he whispers. “Can we just forget it and be friends? Please?”

“If that’s what you want.”

An ember of fury begins to glow under Yuri’s heart, and he flips over to face Otabek, supporting himself on his forearm. “It doesn’t _matter_ what I want,” he bites out. “Not if _you_ don’t want it.”

“You think I don’t want it?” Otabek’s voice is cracked and wretched, and when he slowly lifts a hand and cradles Yuri’s cheek in his palm, Yuri doesn’t move away this time. “You’re all I’ve— _months_ , Yura. _Fuck_.”

“So—you mean—”

“We’ve had a misunderstanding,” Otabek says softly. “And you’re my best friend. Please don’t think you’ve ruined anything.”

The chill of night dissipates; it’s lava in his veins instead of blood, now. This time when Yuri leans in, Otabek meets him halfway, tangling his fingers into Yuri’s hair. Yuri’s heartbeat roars in his ears and he has no idea what to do with his hands, and when he tries to breathe it’s just these stuttering little pants into Otabek’s mouth, and how does anyone ever do this gracefully? He’s kissed people before, at parties and things, but never for this long, never with so much aching fascination. And the hunger seething below the surface, that’s new too; a need for more of something that he can’t name, and he doesn’t quite hold in a whimper when Otabek pulls back.

“I could do this all night,” Otabek murmurs, “but it’s getting very late and cold, so why don’t we go to sleep for now? We can figure this out in the morning.”

* * *

The tent’s too small for the secret that escaped tonight. How do you fall asleep next to your friend right after accidentally kissing him? Yuri tucks himself against the wall of the tent, facing away from Otabek, and stares into the dark.

“Are you awake?” Otabek asks after a little while.

Yuri shuts his eyes and holds still. He forces himself to breathe deeply and evenly, though it feels like he’s smothering himself. After half a minute or so, he hears Otabek sigh. And that’s it. Eventually, Otabek’s breathing slows, and Yuri finally lets himself slip into dreams.

In the morning, he wakes with his chest pressed to Otabek’s back, his arm flung over Otabek’s waist, and his face tucked against the base of Otabek’s neck. He holds in a gasp and begins cautiously disentangling himself. Somehow, Otabek remains asleep through the whole process.

Yuri buries his face in his pillow. He aches to wrap himself around Otabek again, but he can’t, he can’t; he cannot dot a line of kisses down Otabek’s neck, he cannot shake Otabek awake and curl up in his arms, and he cannot grasp Otabek’s hair and demand the pleasure of his mouth on Yuri’s. His body feels stretched-out and fragile, struggling to contain a spiky, nauseating terror that has been swelling in him since the kiss.

This isn’t how it goes. When you get feelings like this about someone, it’s supposed to be like fucking angels are slobbering kisses on your face or something.

Beside him, Otabek stirs, rubs at his eyes. “Hey,” he says. “Good morning.” Rough-edged voice and hair every which way—oh, there’s too little time to spend with him, yet Yuri’s counting the hours until he can leave all of this behind. Maybe, if enough time passes, they can both forget this awkward misadventure, and—

“Are you okay?” Otabek reaches out, and Yuri _tries_ not to flinch, but Otabek doesn’t miss his tiny backward shift and does not touch him after all. “Yura, can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Yuri’s trying for perky reassurance, but he answers a little too fast, a little too loud; and he’s shoving his feet into his shoes.

“You can trust me,” Otabek reminds him, and Yuri wants to shake him because he already _knows_ that, but what is he supposed to say? _Sorry, first friend I ever made, but I kissed you so now I’m scared_. That doesn’t even make sense.

Yuri unzips the tent door. “I’m gonna check on the fire.”

“Yura—”

But Yuri’s already clambering out into the damp morning, where he can finally breathe again.

Some time later, Otabek finds him huddled in a folding chair next to the gently-smoking remains of the fire. Silently, Otabek picks up a long stick and prods at the powdery pile of ash until he coaxes out a few glowing coals, and he crouches down to feed them with bits of grass and bark. When he’s got a small fire slowly growing, he stands up, brushing his hands off on his jeans and turning to Yuri. “You know, it’s okay if you don’t want—something. With me. I won’t be mad at you.”

It feels like red-hot steel wool is scraping the inside of Yuri’s ribcage. He folds himself smaller, hugging his knees. “But I do,” he mumbles into the sleeves of the sweatshirt, which he hasn’t taken off since he put it on last night.

“Okay,” Otabek says. He kneels down in the dew-soaked grass in front of Yuri’s chair. “Is it all right if I check your bandages?”

Yuri nods, untucking himself just enough that Otabek can reach his feet.

“These look better already. You’ll heal up in no time.” Otabek begins applying new bandages, bending his head in concentration. “Yura, if we both want this, we can try some things and see what works.”

Obviously they’re no longer talking about Yuri’s fucked-up feet. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I—do you want to be my boyfriend?” Yuri slaps his hands over his mouth. The idea had already been rolling around in his head, yes, but he hadn’t meant it to spill out all of a sudden like that. Not when there’s some kind of civil war going on inside him, two factions demanding he move closer and run away, both at the same time, right the fuck now.

Otabek’s eyebrows rise almost imperceptibly, and if Yuri didn’t feel like melting into the ground at the moment, he’d take great joy in having shocked Otabek for once. “Is that what you’d like me to be?”

Yuri chews at a hangnail on his thumb, pulling just a little too hard, the pain washing over his mind like ice-cold water. He takes a deep breath. “Maybe?”

“You don’t have to answer right now.” Otabek pats his ankle. “There, you’re all set.”

* * *

As the sun burns away the dew, the choking grip of anxiety lessens its hold on Yuri’s throat. Otabek’s acting like everything is exactly the same, and maybe it is. Maybe.

They sit beside the river, eating apricots right off the trees, so ripe the juice runs down their arms, until the stickiness becomes unbearable and they tear off their jeans and shirts and plunge into the river, gasping at the shock of cold. Yuri splashes water at Otabek, drenching him; but Otabek forges through the onslaught, catches him around the waist, and tosses him sideways. When Yuri bursts spluttering out of the water, Otabek’s standing there grinning, arms folded. “Don’t start shit you can’t finish,” he tells Yuri.

“I’ll take you _down_ ,” Yuri growls, and launches himself at Otabek; but it’s like running headlong into a brick wall and Otabek barely takes half a step backward at the impact.

“Do your worst,” Otabek says, lifting Yuri off his feet and into a bear hug. “Go ahead.”

Yuri beats at his shoulders with his fists, but when that changes absolutely nothing, he slumps in Otabek’s arms instead. “I guess a wise man knows when he’s beaten,” he grumbles.

“Yeah.” Otabek squeezes a little harder. “He does.”

He sets Yuri down then, but the current knocks Yuri off-balance and he grabs for Otabek’s shoulder to steady himself. Otabek’s skin is warm and damp and Yuri doesn’t ever want to stop touching him. He lays his other hand flat against Otabek’s chest, palm over the deep deep heartbeat thumping up through bone and muscle and richocheting off his fingers. “Your heart’s beating kind of fast,” Yuri says, and looks up.

This time, there’s nothing wild or frantic about it. Yuri slides his arms around Otabek’s neck. The river crashes around their legs, but they can’t be moved; they’re locked to each other. Anchored.

Later, they lie in the sun on the riverbank to dry off. “Did you ever find music for your programs?” Yuri asks. He’s stretched out on his side, watching the droplets of water shining on Otabek’s back.

Otabek, face-down in the pillow of his crossed arms, turns his head toward Yuri. “Actually, I did. The free is kind of melancholy, but I think you’re gonna like the short. Especially now.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“That is very much a surprise,” Otabek says. “Although I’m going to try to put the combo in the free. That’s the only spoiler you’re getting.”

“Fine, have it your way,” Yuri grouses. He brushes his hair out of his eyes; it’s drying all crunchy and flyaway and won’t stay put.

Otabek rolls onto his side, rising up on his elbow. “Want me to braid it?”

“Go for it. But if you tie it in knots, I will hunt you down.”

“I’m not going to tie it in knots. Do you have a comb or anything?”

After Yuri fetches his backpack and digs out a comb, Otabek arranges himself behind Yuri and begins untangling the snarls the wind and water have twisted into it. The comb scratches pleasantly over Yuri’s scalp. If he were a cat, he’d—

Otabek pauses. “Did you just—”

“Do _not_ stop,” Yuri growls, “and also, that did _not_ happen.”

“Right.” Otabek resumes working. “You definitely did not purr a little bit.”

“Exactly.” Yuri closes his eyes, pushing his head back against Otabek’s hands. Otabek drops the comb and starts massaging Yuri’s head instead, and oh fuck that feels good.

Otabek’s laughing. “You still want this braided? If so, you’re going to have to sit up, not lie down in my lap.”

Yuri isn’t _in_ Otabek’s lap, but he straightens up anyway. He can feel Otabek dividing and smoothing his hair, then the pull and twist of the start of a braid.

“You growing it out? It’s pretty long,” Otabek comments.

Yuri shrugs. “Not on purpose. Just…haven’t cut it.”

“It looks good. Not that it looks bad when it’s short, I mean.”

“Maybe you just think _I_ look good.” Yuri’s boldness turns his face red, but it’s worth it for the way Otabek clears his throat and goes silent for awhile.

“Do you have a hairtie?” Otabek asks finally, having reached the end of the braid.

Yuri pokes around in his backpack and offers a leopard-print hairtie to Otabek—because they make those, and the more leopard print he owns, the better.

When the braid is secure, Otabek leans forward, his breath hot against Yuri’s ear. “And in case you wanted to know, I think you’re beautiful.”

Yuri can’t help the tiny gasp that escapes him. “Oh,” he says weakly. “You, um, you too.” It’s not his most eloquent moment, but it makes Otabek laugh and kiss his temple, so it’s not a total failure of a compliment either. He leans back slightly, and Otabek wraps his arms around Yuri’s waist. This is okay. This is easy. Yuri can do this, even if the panicky part of his mind is still scurrying around in there like a trapped mouse. _Take that_ , he tells it.

* * *

Later still, the same soft blankets; the same delicate lace of firelight; the same map of stars which no longer seems completely unreadable. And in the cramped darkness of the tent, they heat up the air until kissing is no longer enough, and Otabek rolls onto his back, pulling Yuri with him in an ungainly toppling-over that belies Yuri’s typical grace.

Otabek’s thigh is between his legs, and Yuri is sure Otabek can feel what’s happening there; it’s not as if Yuri can prevent it, and it’s all he can do to keep still when everything in him says _move_. Otabek’s mouth slips sideways and down, landing on the pulse thudding away in Yuri’s throat. His hands, light on Yuri’s waist, slide lower too. He digs his thumbs into Yuri’s hipbones, and lightning arcs between his hands.

“Is this okay?” Otabek asks.

“Nnh,” says Yuri, zero for two on eloquence now, but who the fuck cares. He nods hard instead.

Otabek drags down the collar of his sweatshirt that Yuri’s still wearing; traces his lips along Yuri’s collarbone. “Are you ever going to take this off?”

“No, it’s mine now,” Yuri says, and he bites at Otabek’s lower lip. Otabek makes a choked-off sound and his whole body jolts. The whole straddling-Otabek’s-leg situation is becoming a serious problem now, and Yuri sneaks his hand down and presses his palm against the front of his jeans so he can maybe get control of things.

Or he _tries_ to sneak, but Otabek catches him at it. “Yura, what are you— _oh._ ” Otabek’s head falls back, and he stares up at Yuri, as stunned if he’s just discovered a new planet. “Tell me what to—tell me what you want?”

The question hangs in the scant space between them, glaring painful neon, lighting up the giant blank in Yuri’s head where the words to say what he wants should be. “Can I—” He grits his teeth, pushing his face against Otabek’s neck. “Please,” he whispers, and rocks against his own hand just a little, a tiny movement, just enough to get the idea across.

“Oh my god, Yura, yes, whatever you want—”

“ _Shit_ ,” Yuri hisses. He could stop this and go to sleep right now; it would be fine. But that’s not what he wants. In this moment, what does he expect of himself? No more than the truth, and the truth is—

His shaking fingers stumble over the zipper of his jeans, and the metal teeth scrape over his knuckles when he shoves his hand in. After that it’s exactly like when he’s home alone in his bedroom, except that he’s in the middle of nowhere in a tent, and he doesn’t have to imagine anymore.

As soon as it’s over, he kind of wants to die. He’s been split down the center and butterflied open, and now his heart is on display, all pathetic and squirming. Even if he pulls the edges back together, there will be gaps in the seam forever now. He scrubs his palm against the leg of his jeans and drops his forehead onto Otabek’s shoulder. Otabek is skimming his fingers up and down Yuri’s back, and there’s still something more to deal with. “What about you?” Yuri asks, hoping to sound like he does this all the time, but he’s pretty sure he just gives the impression of having no idea what he’s doing. Which he doesn’t.

“I’m fine,” Otabek breathes. “I’m good. Don’t worry about me. Are you okay?”

“You keep _asking_ me that.” Yuri rolls sideways, landing on his back. “Why don’t you want me to do anything? I _know_ you’re not, like, a virgin or anything.”

Otabek turns onto his side to look at Yuri. “I don’t like to rush, that’s all.”

“You sure were in a hurry with Chris,” Yuri mutters.

“Even Chris and I had a couple of dates first. And besides, it’s different with you.”

Yuri narrows his eyes. “Because I’m, what, immature? Inexperienced? Just because I haven’t done this before—”

“That’s not what I mean. You—” Otabek rubs a hand over his face, almost like maybe _he’s_ nervous. “You’re on my mind a considerable amount of the time. And I don’t expect that to change. So this doesn’t have to be a whirlwind kind of thing.”

Like streetlights blinking on one by one, comprehension begins to flicker to life in Yuri’s mind. “You said you were hung up on someone.”

Otabek holds his gaze. “I was.”

“And now?” Yuri’s skin prickles like it’s shrinking around his bones, and there’s not enough room for his hurtling heartbeat.

“Now I think maybe I don’t have to be?”

Yuri wants to wipe out the hesitance in Otabek’s voice, to replace it with a feeling that’s solid and certain, even though the drumming inside his chest signals a flare-up of the civil war. He strains against the shrink-wrap of his skin, trying desperately to unfold, until something gives, and it’s less of a kiss and more of a collision.

“Ow,” Otabek says against Yuri’s mouth; but he’s not pulling away; he’s hauling Yuri tight to his chest. His hair is soft and just long enough to grab, which he doesn’t seem to mind Yuri doing, if the sounds he’s making are any indication. And here they go again.

* * *

A hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. “Yura.”

“Mmm _no._ ” Yuri keeps his face mashed into his pillow and yanks his blanket over his head. He can hear Otabek laughing softly.

The hand returns, pulling away the blanket, _stealing_ his refuge. And his sleep. “Yura, it’s time to get up.”

Yuri cracks open one eye. Dawn has indeed come stampeding over the horizon. “Noissnot,” he says, even though the bright yellowish light inside the tent proves it’s long past early morning.

“Okay, but your coffee will get cold.”

“Exploiting my weaknesses,” Yuri grumbles, finally lurching upright. “Fucking rude.”

“I make you coffee and this is the thanks I get.”

“You signed up for it,” Yuri reminds him.

“I guess I did.” That soft look is back on Otabek’s face, sending tremors down Yuri’s spine—tiny earthquakes shaking apart the foundation of him.

* * *

The hike back down the mountain is even quieter than when they were coming up it. For Yuri’s part, his head’s so crowded there’s barely room to stick two words together. When they’re finally exiting the grassy, whispering hills that had invited them in, the strangest idea occurs to him—that he’s leaving some kind of fairyland where the usual rules do not apply. So what happens upon the return to the real world, once you’ve tasted the enchanted fruit?

In a daze, tendrils of the weird magic still clinging to him, he helps Otabek load up the bike. Then they’re off on the winding road, speeding toward the city and the kitchen counter where Yuri’s plane ticket waits.

Back at Otabek’s apartment, they’re so tired that neither of them makes it further than the couch, though Yuri has the foresight to set an alarm on his phone and manages to at least kick off his shoes and strip down to his t-shirt and boxers. He _means_ to tell Otabek he’s ready to go to sleep now, but somehow his head ends up in Otabek’s lap, and Otabek’s fingers carding through his hair is the best feeling on the planet. “I hope,” Otabek begins, but Yuri’s already drifting off and the rest of the sentence gets lost in the fog.

His alarm blares what feels like only moments later, and he jerks awake and slaps at the screen until he gets it turned off. It’s practically still night out. He sits up; his hair’s in his face, in his _mouth_ even, the braid having come loose in his sleep. He bats it out of his face and drags himself to his feet. Otabek is groaning himself awake. “You don’t have to go with me,” Yuri whispers to him. “I can find my way to the airport.”

“I want to,” Otabek says. “If it’s okay.” He grabs his sweatshirt from the floor where Yuri dropped it and pulls it over his head. Yuri’s stomach kind of hurts. It was a nice sweatshirt, if temporary.

“Yeah, it’s fine.” Yuri turns on a table lamp, one with a dim bulb and a dark shade that won’t shock their eyes too much, and scans the floor and furniture for any wayward belongings. Nothing appears to have escaped his bags. “Ready when you are.”

The bus is nearly empty this early, though a cold gray-pink has begun to paint the eastern sky. Yuri dozes in his seat, Otabek warm and steady beside him, until they reach their stop. With the airport in view, it’s real now, and Yuri’s blinking back tears before he can shove away the horrible feeling that’s stuck somewhere between relief and agony.

“Oh, Yura.” It kind of sounds like Otabek’s choked up, too.

“If you start crying, I won’t be able to stop, so _don’t_.”

“Then I won’t.” Otabek opens his arms, and Yuri leans into him, hugs him tight, breathes him in. Then Otabek pulls back. “I have an idea,” he says, and off comes the sweatshirt. He pushes it into Yuri’s hands. “This is yours now, at least until I see you again. Take good care of it, okay? It’s my favorite.”

Yuri stares at him, open-mouthed. “I can’t take—”

Otabek puts his hands behind his back as Yuri tries to hand him the sweatshirt. “Yeah, you can, because I’m not taking it back.”

“Okay, well—” Yuri ties it around his waist and bends down to rummage through one of his bags. “This is _my_ favorite,” he says, and drapes a silky tiger-striped scarf around Otabek’s neck.

Otabek runs his fingers over it. “I don’t know if orange is my color.”

“Deal with it.” Yuri zips his bag closed. “And don’t you dare lose it, or rip it, or put it in a washing machine. Dry-clean _only_.”

“You got it.”

“Well—goodbye, I guess,” Yuri says, and dives in for one last hug. Otabek doesn’t try to kiss him, so Yuri doesn’t try either; they haven’t exactly discussed the protocal for airport PDA.

As he heads for security, he looks over his shoulder one last time. Otabek is pressing the scarf to his mouth, eyes closed.

* * *

When Grandpa picks Yuri up from the airport, he’s so tired that he immediately falls asleep, slumping against the window. Grandpa practically has to carry him into the apartment, clucking over him but not pressing him with questions just yet. He gets Yuri settled in bed and actually tucks him in, which hasn’t happened in years. “Sleep well, Yurochka,” Grandpa says, and shuts the door so gently that Yuri barely hears it.

He awakens sometime in the afternoon, struggling to remember where and when and _who_ he is. He’ll never get used to the disorienting effects of international travel. He grabs his phone from the nightstand and tries to check the time, then remembers he never turned it back on after getting off the plane. **You have 2 unread messages** , it informs him.

<Otabek>

_I miss you already._

_I wish I could have kissed you goodbye._

Yuri feels like he’s swallowed rocks. The nausea’s back, and the burning scraping sensation inside his ribcage, and it’s all he can do to hit _Reply_.

<Yuri>

_home safe_

He watches the cursor blinking. Should he say more? He should say more. “Home safe”; that’s not nearly enough to answer the kind of things Otabek said. He thinks about it so long that Otabek texts him again before he can add anything.

<Otabek>

_Should we talk soon? Skype?_

Yuri closes the app, breathing with extreme concentration. At first he mutes his phone; then he turns it off entirely and drops it into the nightstand drawer. He rolls over and burrows into the blankets again, squeezing his eyes shut. _Fuck_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • Holy hell y'all, I realize it took SO VERY LONG to update and I appreciate your patience!! <3 (As well as all of you who've been letting me rant and whine at you as I struggled along. XD) Next one will probably be another bit of a wait; I'm doing Reverse Bang and I want to make sure I devote lots of attention to that. But I hope the SHEER FUCKING LENGTH of this one makes up for it...
> 
> • About the rating changing: I am as surprised as you are. I kind of argued with myself about writing that part because I never intended it to happen in _this_ particular story, but it was what made sense, so I went with it.
> 
> • I have decided timestamps are the devil and I’m probably going to take them out of earlier chapters. We’ll see. :p (Figuring out how to format this kind of thing is mostly a matter of reading a ton of chatlog fics and deciding what styles I like, heh.)
> 
> • I am absolutely gonna try making beşbarmaq because omG that looks like good shit. (I already made pirozhki because of this story, lol, and they were FANTASTIC. I recommend it.)
> 
> • lol remember that time i was like "this might reach 10k? maybe?" let us laugh together
> 
> • Um, um, fuck, I've been staring at this thing for like a month and I have no brain cells left, but feel free to come yell at me [at tumblr](http://meimagino.tumblr.com) about that secret angst bomb. ;) Or, you know, just yell about otayuri with me. Whatever.


	5. fragile, irreplaceable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Should we talk soon? Skype?_
> 
> It’s been two days. Yuri rereads Otabek’s last texts several times a day, each time hoping he won’t immediately get an awful squirming feeling in his stomach. Always it hits him like a knot of snakes writhing, trying and failing to work themselves out.

******JULY**

> _Should we talk soon? Skype?_

It’s been two days. Yuri rereads Otabek’s last texts several times a day, each time hoping he won’t immediately get that awful squirming feeling in his stomach. Always it hits him like a knot of snakes writhing, trying and failing to work themselves out.

> _I miss you already._

It’s been five days. He should answer. _Has_ to answer eventually, doesn’t he? Or else he’ll send their friendship crashing straight over a cliff, knowing exactly what he’s doing all the while.

The stuffed cat has been perched on the corner of his bed next to his head ever since Otabek gave it to him. Now it glares accusingly, and when the real Koshka bumps her head into it and knocks it to the floor, Yuri nudges it under the bedskirt instead of picking it up.

> _I wish I could have kissed you goodbye._  

One night, very late, he stares at that message for a long time. It’s been a week and a half. He’s worn Otabek’s sweatshirt to bed every night since he returned; tonight’s no different. It smells like smoke and sweat. It should probably disgust him, but instead he pulls the collar up over his nose and breathes in, lingering over the words on the screen. Remembering that last night on the mountain—the fire outside withering into ash, while an inferno devoured him.

“It’s okay if you don’t want something,” Otabek had said, and “You don’t have to answer right now.” But Yuri does want; that’s the whole problem. This ferocious desire will swallow him whole; and it’s deeply unfair that the options he’s been allowed are the clawing grief of Otabek always belonging to others, or the terror currently crushing his ribcage into pulp.

> _sorry, im just so tired_
> 
> _sorry, been rly busy_
> 
> _sorry, had to stay late at practice today_

His excuses pile up over the next few weeks, sandbags against the impending flood. Flood of what, Yuri cannot say, but it’s coming and it’s going to knock him down and fill his lungs and choke him, if he does not ward it off. Guilt needles him; he shoves it away into the darkest recesses of his mind. Like he’d shove a mess into a corner of his closet, supposedly to deal with it later, knowing he won’t. He’s dreading the moment Otabek asks him what’s going on, because Otabek will probably be achingly kind about it, and right now Yuri would rather hear _why the fuck are you ignoring me, asshole?_ Then at least he could get into a fight about it and give himself actual reasons to avoid Otabek, instead of pacing in mental circles, unable to locate the source of his panic. He doesn’t know how he’ll answer when Otabek asks. He might deny anything is going on. He might ignore the question entirely. How can he possibly explain, when he doesn’t even understand why he’s doing this?

But Otabek never asks. After the first couple of times Yuri rejects the suggestion, he stops offering Skype. His texts, previously a daily feature in Yuri’s life, dwindle to short weekly updates on his life. In the mornings, Yuri is no longer anxious at the thought of checking his phone. He sleeps in a t-shirt now, because it’s well into summer and it’s too hot for a sweatshirt.

“I thought we could make pirozhki,” Grandpa suggests one evening after practice.

Yuri’s stomach flips. He hasn’t eaten pirozhki since that Skype call with Otabek, when there was flour on Otabek’s face and he looked happy and he wasn’t texting Yuri only about eight words a week. _And who ruined all that?_ Yuri thinks. “I’m not very hungry,” he tells his grandfather, which wasn’t true five minutes ago but is very much the case now. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right, Yurochka.” But Yuri can tell Grandpa’s disappointed. He’s never said no to a pirozhki session before.

Yuri goes into his room and drops his skate bag on the floor, then shuts the door and leans heavily against it. Lately he’s hard-pressed to find anything to do that doesn’t somehow remind him of Otabek. Yuri hadn’t realized how much of his life he’d been sharing, entangling Otabek in the tiny mundane activities that made up Yuri’s days. Until he stopped doing it.

 

He can’t even go to the fucking rink without the wreckage of this friendship popping up in the back of his mind, tripping him mentally and sometimes actually sending him smashing into the ice. He’s bruised inside and out, and when he quits practice early one day, yelling something insulting he can’t even remember over his shoulder at Yakov, Yakov doesn’t call after him.

But Mila follows him and waits for him outside the locker room, so he’s forced to walk past her on his escape route. She catches his wrist as he does, and he stops, sighing. There’s no point trying to shake off someone who can literally bench-press you. “I want to talk to you,” she says. “Shall we go outside?” It’s not actually a suggestion.

In the park next to the rink, behind a screen of trees, she sits him down on a wooden bench and perches next to him. She looks off across the expanse of green lawn rather than turning to face him directly, and he is grateful. Ever since he broke himself open in front of Otabek, he hasn’t quite managed to put everything back inside. Like the heart of a geode, his rawness glints through the fissures, an excruciating display. The fewer people who have to see that, the better.

“Did something happen between you and Otabek?” It seems Mila’s noticed the extreme lack of talking about Otabek that he’s been doing lately. The kindness in her voice burns him—she doesn’t know it’s his fault. The nausea returns full-force.

“You could say that.” Too much, that’s what happened; he’d torn off his skin and let his skeleton out. He never should have let anyone look at all that naked, screaming hunger. He should have kept it tucked safely away, _very_ deep down, where it couldn’t stumble around shattering fragile, irreplaceable things.

“Can I ask you a really personal question? You don’t have to answer. I’ll drop it if you say so.”

What does it even matter? There’s not much left to damage. “I guess.”

“Did you and Otabek have sex?”

Mila’s never seen a bush she felt like beating around. “Oh my god,” Yuri says, putting his face in his hands.

“Sorry,” Mila says. “Like I said, I’ll drop—”

“I don’t _know_ , okay? I don’t know if what we did was—anything.”

“Ahh.” There’s no inflection or judgement apparent in her voice at all.

“And I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s all right. You don’t have to.”

Mila’s always had this way of picking him open bit by bit, gentling him along as he decides how much he wants to say. “It’s just—” And here he feels the telltale sting at the back of his eyes, the very last thing he wants to be happening, but this is the first scrap of tenderness he’s allowed himself to receive since he returned home. “He didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t know why I can’t talk to him. Every time I try, I feel like I’m gonna puke.”

“It’s okay,” Mila soothes. “This is so new to you, Yuri. Maybe you let a part of yourself show that you weren’t totally ready to. It happens.”

“But I wanted to,” Yuri whispers. “I wanted everything with him! And now I can’t even tell him good morning. I fucked it up.”

Mila pulls him against her shoulder; he gives up and lets the tears come. “You know you need to tell _him_ all of this, right?”

“I can’t.”

She hugs him harder, ignoring the damp patch on her jacket. “I know.” 

If only all of this could fade away gracefully. But even Grandpa wants to know how that nice young friend of his is doing, and when he watches his football games, Yuri’s heart fractures further with every _davai!_ from the living room.

 

**AUGUST**

There comes a day Yuri checks Otabek’s Instagram for the first time in weeks, and the two most recent pictures there make his breath catch. In one, he’s walking down a dusty mountain path, his back to Otabek and his shoulders hunched under his backpack. His hair floats around him in the light breeze he remembers from the last day. It’s the only photo Otabek has posted from their trip. _#mountaintiger_ , he’s tagged it. In the other, Otabek grins at him, tiger-striped scarf wound tight around his neck, a _#giftfromthebestfriend_ _#untilwemeetagain_. He’s increased the saturation, making the orange blare just a bit more than it does in real life. That shade really isn’t his color, but he looks so happy it doesn’t matter. 

Both photos have a couple hundred likes. And both were posted over six weeks ago. It’s not like Otabek put much on this account before now, but since the Final, since Yuri blazed into his life and demanded to know him, he’s never gone more than a few days without uploading _something_. This fact, more than the photos themselves, sets Yuri’s stomach roiling.

 

In hindsight, Yuri should have been suspicious when Victor jumped at the chance to drive him home from brunch, but practice has kicked his ass all week and he’s lured easily by the promise of an easy, comfortable ride. Except Victor can’t just let it be easy _or_ comfortable.

“So,” Victor says, too lightly. “Heard from Otabek lately?”

Yuri narrows his eyes. “What’s it to you?”

“That’s a no, then.” Victor sounds annoyingly like he already knew the answer. “Why not, Yurio? I thought you two were the very best of friends.”

Yuri’s fists are clenched on his knees so tightly that his knuckles have gone white. Of all the people who might have called him out, he hadn’t anticipated being trapped in a car with Victor when it happened. “How do you even know about this?”

“Well, you know Chris—my oldest and dearest friend? Turns out he’s friends with Otabek too.”

_Friends_. That’s a word for it. Yuri closes his eyes and breathes in very, very deeply through his nose. He can’t believe Otabek told _Chris_. Chris can’t keep a secret to save his life, as evidenced by him going straight to Victor to spill. But…maybe Otabek didn’t say it was a secret. Maybe Otabek didn’t make it sound like it mattered to him at all.

“What happened, Yuri?”

Yuri hates it when Victor talks to him in that soft voice, as if Yuri is as fragile as glass and just as transparent. “Literally _nothing_ ,” he says, staring straight ahead at the road. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Victor raising one stupid, perfect eyebrow.

“You’re awfully angry over nothing.” Victor spins the wheel and drives them around a corner, and Yuri realizes they’re now driving _away_ from his apartment.

“You went the wrong way,” he tells Victor, but he’s unsurprised when Victor just hums at him and ignores the comment. Because there’s no way Victor forgot where Yuri lives. He just likes it if Yuri can’t flee from his prodding.

“Is it that he went on a date with Chris?”

A date and a lot fucking more, Yuri doesn’t say. “That was _months_ ago. Also, _no_ , that has nothing to do with it. And I am _not_ talking to you about this.”

“Will you talk to Yuuri, then? Or someone else? We’re all very worried about you. You haven’t…been yourself, lately.”

“ _No_ ,” Yuri spits. “ _None_ of you. Tell them to mind their own business. Fucking nosy little…”

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” Victor has them turned back around now, heading toward Yuri’s home.

“What is?”

“Being loved.” Victor cuts his eyes sideways; Yuri resolutely does not turn his head to meet his gaze. “It’s completely terrifying and, Yuri—I don’t blame you for a moment.”

“He doesn’t… _love_ …me,” Yuri grits out. “And I’m not afraid.”

Victor doesn’t argue the first point, which is good, and fine, because he is wrong. “Okay, you’re not afraid. So what is it?”

They’ve pulled up outside Yuri’s apartment, and Yuri already has his fingers on the car door handle. Something cold and heavy and sharp settles in his chest, as if he’s swallowed a small iceberg. “It’s better this way.” The words fall from his lips before he can consider their weight, and they become true as he speaks them. “It was too much.” He hits the lock on the door; starts to push it open.

He has one foot on the pavement when Victor clears his throat. “Yurochka.”

“What,” Yuri says, flattening the word.

“Do you want it to be like this?”

Yuri doesn’t answer, slamming the car door and hurrying into his building before Victor can get it into his head to get out and stop him. Grandpa calls to him from the kitchen, but Yuri chokes out some excuse about having a headache and rushes past.

In his room he crumples stricken to the floor, wrapping his arms around his legs and pressing his forehead against his knees. Koshka brushes against his calves, trilling, but he can’t seem to loosen his grip to pet her. June is crawling out of the mental box he’s shoved it into, twining around his throat like poison ivy throttling a tree. Otabek’s eyes in the firelight, the moment before Yuri’s mouth against his told him the truth. His smile in that stupid picture taken in the dappled shadows of a little knot of trees, which Yuri never posted and certainly can’t now. His hands so gentle on Yuri’s shredded feet, against his cheek, on his hipbones, in his hair.

Otabek has never touched him with anything but tenderness and— _love_ , Yuri’s mind supplies unhelpfully, because Victor had to go and suggest it, even though it’s a dumb idea. They don’t flirt and fawn like Victor and Yuuri do. Nobody’s taking off to move across the world at a moment’s notice. It’s not the same thing at all. Not to mention that kind of affection usually makes Yuri feel like his skin is going to burn off, but Otabek is different. 

_Was_ different. The cold ache inside him squeezes tighter, and his whole body pounds with his heartbeat. Whatever they have, it’s dying with the last of summer, all because of Yuri.

 

**SEPTEMBER**

Otabek’s sweatshirt is hanging in Yuri’s closet, at the far end of the rail behind all his other clothing. As badly as he wanted to hold onto it in June, it surprises him that he’s gone out of his way for weeks not to even see it.

It’s especially cold tonight, though, and he tells himself that’s the only reason he’s tugging it off its hanger and pulling it over his head, although he had to reach past his other sweaters and hoodies to reach it. It kind of just smells like his closet now, like plain old laundry and cedar. He pulls the sleeves over his hands and curls up in bed, but the ache in his chest won’t let him sleep. Maybe, tonight, he could…

He grabs his laptop and opens Skype, late-night bravery keeping him afloat. Otabek might not even be awake, but he can just check, right?

> _Offline 66 days_

He can’t close the app fast enough. Otabek hasn’t asked to skype him in over two months. It’s as if he’s stopped trying at all. Well, why shouldn’t he? Yuri certainly stopped. And he doesn’t want to be the person who _needs_ to be chased. He doesn’t want to be chased at all.

 

Yuri’s beginning to hate his short program, which is a problem because there is absolutely _not_ time to make a new one before the Grand Prix begins. At least the thing is somewhat about suffering, because he’s never been able to conceal his emotions when he skates. It’s part of his appeal, he knows; the audience wants to read a story in the way he moves and in the expressions on his face. If those don’t match, the story crashes and so do his scores.

If only he’d picked something instrumental—but he’d liked the energy in the song; had played it a second time right away and found himself marking out choreography in his head. It’s not like Victor had been wrong about the necessity of surprising people—so now that everyone’s expecting more like _Madness_ , Yuri may as well hit them with some French pop. Plus, the aesthetic in the music video had sparked some _sick_ costume ideas that Yakov was going to _hate_. All in all, a great decision. 

But now it’s becoming a problem, just because the stupid lyrics have started to feel a bit too personal. He’d tried not to let it happen, but every day he found himself relating more and more, until the thought of Otabek had entrenched itself in the song. Out of everything in his life that he’s accidentally linked with Otabek, this music is the worst.

 

Late on a chilly, damp night toward the end of September, Yuri’s just about to doze off when he hears his phone _ping_ with an email. Drowsy, sleep-slowed, he paws at the notification, not even realizing who it’s from until it’s too late. He snaps awake when he sees the name.

**From: Otabek Altin <otabek.altin@gmail.com> **

To: Yuri Plisetsky <sofakingyuri@gmail.com>

@ 11:02 PM

Subject: this seems like an email kind of message

> I don’t really know how to start this, so I guess I’ll just start. I can’t sleep, and I’ve needed to say this for awhile.
> 
> I have to admit, I don’t know what happened. If I did something, if I made you uncomfortable or hurt you somehow, you can tell me. If you want. I hope you know that. But if you can’t tell me or you don’t want to, it’s all right. I don’t hold anything against you.
> 
> I hope you’re okay, Yuri. And good luck in the Grand Prix. I mean it.
> 
> That’s all.
> 
> \- Otabek

Yuri turns off the screen and falls back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. Outside, a streetlight shines golden through the light rain spattering his window. Somehow this is the loneliest weather he can imagine, and for the first time since he was very young, he’s struck with the urge to run to his grandfather’s room to beg comfort. Resolutely, he turns his back to the window and burrows under the blankets.

After the Grand Prix assignments came out in May, Yuri had sent Otabek a string of grouchy texts over the fact that they weren’t going to share a single event. _i wanted to see you!_ he’d complained, and Otabek had answered, _You can see me whenever you want. :)_ Which, at the time, had been true. Now, though… now Yuri doesn’t have to worry about running into Otabek until December, and then only if they both make it into the Final. Thinking of it in this moment, all he feels is relief—followed shortly by devastation at feeling relieved. It’s been three months, and if there’s a path back to the way things were, Yuri can’t see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • If you've been reading this for awhile, bless you for sticking around! Life Ate Me for a bit, but I swear this WIP _will_ be finished. I already have 1,200 words of notes for the final chapter...
> 
> • Come say hi to [me @ tumblr](http://meimagino.tumblr.com)! I also accept screaming, yelling, and threats of pain in return for the pain I have caused you. ;)
> 
> • Many thanks to [machinewithoutfeelings](http://archiveofourown.org/users/machinewithoutfeelings/), [seaworn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/seaworn), and [seekingsquake](http://archiveofourown.org/users/seekingsquake) for being ANGELS and letting me whine about the writing process and giving me advice. Y'all are the best.


	6. nothing but a mannequin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri feels like a wasp’s nest—if anyone were to brush up against him right now, poison barbs would boil out of him. So he needs to be alone and he needs to keep moving. It’s the only way to soothe the buzzing energy, and the increasingly wet, gray days are inconvenient.
> 
> He runs anyway, lacing up leather sneakers against the damp and zipping himself into a windbreaker, but there’s nothing he can do for the rain soaking his hair and blurring his vision. In the rain, it doesn’t matter if he cries; the water masks it. Yakov scolds him: he’s running too much, he’s wearing himself out, his practices are suffering. Yuri nods and nods and says he’ll take it easier.
> 
> He doesn’t take it easier. His legs ache every day. “I want to add another quad to my free,” he tells Yakov.
> 
> [In which everything that can possibly go wrong, does.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are…the final chapter. <3 I don’t want this to be over! I’ve had so much fun writing it and reading your reactions!! Y’all otayuri fans are a blessed part of this fandom and I love you very much. (Thanks especially to those of you who have been waiting TWO SOLID MONTHS to know how this ends.)

**OCTOBER**

The trees have flared into arboreal bonfires, blazing red and gold for one last show before life curls in on itself and shrivels down to nothing. It’s not Yuri’s favorite time of year. For all he’s the Ice Tiger, he’d prefer to lounge in a puddle of sunlight, melting gently.

The cold doesn’t stop him going outside, though. He feels like a wasp’s nest—if anyone were to brush up against him right now, poison barbs would boil out of him. So he needs to be alone and he needs to keep moving. It’s the only way to soothe the buzzing energy, and the increasingly wet, gray days are inconvenient.

He runs anyway, lacing up leather sneakers against the damp and zipping himself into a windbreaker, but there’s nothing he can do for the rain soaking his hair and blurring his vision. In the rain, it doesn’t matter if he cries; the water masks it. Yakov scolds him: he’s running too much, he’s wearing himself out, his practices are suffering. Yuri nods and nods and says he’ll take it easier.

He doesn’t take it easier. His legs ache every day. “I want to add another quad to my free,” he tells Yakov, only three weeks before Skate Canada—his first event.

Yakov’s busy calculating point values and probable GOE scores in a notebook, like Yuri hasn’t already done that, and doesn’t look up. “Why the hell do you need a fifth quad? Your total base value is already the highest in the field. Besides, nobody’s ever done five.”

“Because I can do it,” Yuri says. “You think my sponsors are generous now? Imagine if I make history.” Because he might actually need a fifth quad, he doesn’t add. Otabek’s quad combo flashes through his brain, a split second of perfection. And that was months ago. And Otabek’s first event isn’t until November. And Victor and Katsuki are both competing this season. Yuri’s going to have to work for gold like never before.

Yakov rolls his eyes. “I could say no, but you’ll probably just do it anyway.”

“So I’m thinking it’ll be a lutz,” Yuri muses. “Since that’s been going well. In the second half, of course.”

“You want to give me a heart attack,” Yakov says. “That’s the only explanation. Yurochka, I don’t know if even _your_ stamina—”

Yuri interrupts. “My stamina is fine. Look, I’ll try it for awhile. I won’t even try it in Saskatchewan, all right? I’ll wait for Osaka. If I can’t do it by then, I’ll move it earlier in the program.”

“If you can’t do it by then, you should leave it out.”

“I’ll move it earlier,” Yuri repeats, and shoves in his headphones. Yakov can mutter curses under his breath all he likes. Yuri will show him.

His legs are _killing_ him, and he only tries the quad lutz once in his program today, because he falls so hard on it he scrapes open the skin on his palms and has to waste twenty minutes letting Yakov wash and bandage him. It’s fine. He has time. He can do it.

 

Yuri shows up at Skate Canada, does his job, and walks away with gold as he expected. Like a weird replay, Katsuki takes silver, and because he’s like the perfect competitor or something, congratulates Yuri and means it. Yuri’s not sure he’d be so gracious if their roles were reversed.

He lets himself wonder for one full minute if Otabek was watching or looked up the videos later or anything, and when his chest begins to tighten, he starts thinking about something else.

  
****

On the last day of October, Yuri texts Yakov that he’s sick and can’t come to practice. Then he stays in bed all day with Koshka. He should call Otabek to say happy birthday; he shouldn’t order pizza.

He orders a large pepperoni and doesn’t call Otabek.

 

**NOVEMBER**

Yuri walks into the rink for morning practice, and Yakov holds up a printed-out news article. Yuri’s about to ask Yakov if he’s heard of mobile news sites, but he’s barely opened his mouth when Yakov says, “The Altin boy won Cup of China last night.”

Yuri’s stomach crashes to the floor. He hadn’t looked up the standings; hadn’t wanted to. But there’s no way to explain to Yakov why Yuri doesn’t want to hear anything about Otabek. “Oh.”

“‘Oh’?” Yakov repeats, incredulous. “We need to adjust our plans. I don’t know what his coach has been doing to him, but he’s a completely different skater this season. The emotionality, the choreography—I’ve never seen him skate that way in his life! Yuri, try to act like you care.”

Yuri drops onto a bench and starts pulling his shoes off. “I’ve got it under control.”

“You need to see this.” Yakov’s loading a video on his phone.

Yuri hears music start, some rock song he doesn’t know. He lowers his head and shoves his feet into his skates, humming quietly. He doesn’t know what music Otabek selected and he’d rather keep it that way. He doesn’t need to get the full picture.

“You need to know what you’re up against!” Yakov insists.

“I already know,” Yuri spits. “He already _showed_ me. It’s not enough to beat me.” He’s not actually positive that last part is true, but he needs it to be. He’ll find a way to make it so.

In Osaka, Yuri wins the short program and talks shit at Victor for a full day after. Victor only smiles beatifically, then kicks Yuri’s ass in the free and wins the whole fucking event. Yakov shakes his head at Yuri after the scores are finalized. “I told you not to do the fifth quad.”

“I’d been landing it!” Yuri growls. “There was no reason to think I wouldn’t land it in the free!” Something had gone wrong with his entrance— _really_ wrong—and his beautiful, perfect, absolutely _solid_ quad lutz turned into an under-rotated piece of shit flutz. On which he fell, hard enough to shake him up, and the rest of his program had not recovered. A popped axel, a hand down on a triple loop…Yuri had blown through the final two minutes barely registering the mistakes, then skated off the rink in a daze, not even bothering to hope. And then Victor had been flawless, of course. Fucker.

At least Yuri manages silver out of it. Phichit’s annoyingly excited about third place, given that Yuri still outscored him by far, but it’s whatever. He skips the banquet, electing to wait out the clock in his hotel room, and takes a selfie with his medal. It’s not befitting an international competitor at all: he sticks his tongue out and flips off the camera.

 

**yuri-plisetsky**

#watchoutoldman #victornikiforov #morelikedicktor #amiright #GPFgoldisminebitch

 

Victor, who has a sixth sense for these kind of things, comments within ten minutes. _Yurioooo! Congrattulaions!! Why arent you dancing!!! YUuri misses yuo~~_

Yuri slaps his phone down on the bed. Victor is not only drunk, he’s bulletproof. A man who doesn’t care about personal attacks is impossible to insult.

 

Two weeks later, Otabek wins Skate America. Like, by a _lot_. Once again, Yuri only finds out because Yakov insists on telling him. If Yuri’s being honest, he’s maybe getting a little bit concerned. Yakov has stopped complaining about the fifth quad, which means Yakov has started thinking Yuri needs it. That’s a problem. That means Yuri can’t just be the best; he’s got to break records, make some history, just to win this thing. No pressure, right?

 

**DECEMBER**

In Nagoya, Katsuki’s overjoyed to have his family at the Final, and Victor’s overjoyed because Katsuki is. It’s fucking annoying, and then Victor and Katsuki’s family put their heads together—right in the middle of the hotel lobby—and decide they’re all going to the onsen after the competition ends. Victor catches Yuri by the sleeve and drags him over to the discussion. “You could invite Otabek,” Victor stage-whispers.

Yuri yanks his arm away. “I’d rather go back to St. Petersburg, thanks.”

“Sure.” Victor eyes him. “And enjoy the lovely snow and ice of our mother country, rather than relax in a hot spring. Very sensible!”

“Shut up,” Yuri tells him, and stalks off to the elevator. He’s got shit to do. A rink to check out. Socialization to avoid.

 

The following morning, Yuri’s hoping—stupid as it is—that Otabek will have slept in, been jet-lagged, _something_ so that Yuri doesn’t run into him at practice. But when he walks into the rink, there’s Otabek, all in black, standing at the far side of the boards with his coach. His back is turned, and Yuri slips onto the ice as if stealth might stop Otabek noticing him.

But Otabek notices him, all right. Their eyes catch each other’s, and the resulting effect is Otabek looking like he’s been slapped across the face.

Yuri looks away quickly; he can’t afford distraction this late in a competition series. For awhile, it’s fine. He runs through his step sequences and his spins; knocks out a gorgeous triple axel-triple toe. He feels good; no, he feels _ready_ , like he hasn’t felt in weeks. Nothing can possibly stand in his way except his own mind, and he intends to rule that with an iron will.

Quad sal, then. He sets it up precisely, launches himself, and promptly crashes into the ice. What the hell? It’s a fluke, yeah; he hasn’t fucked up a quad sal in months. So he does it again. This time, he doesn’t fall, but it’s only a triple.

Again. Hand down. Again. A fall. Again and again, he cannot land it. It should be as simple as walking; but it’s gone, like he never learned it at all.

“Stop,” Yakov orders. “Try another one. Come back to the sal later.”

Quad toe goes okay, but he can’t win on _okay_. He falls twice on the quad lutz, and Yakov starts waving him over.

“I think that’s enough of quads.” Yakov’s voice is oddly gentle, and Yuri hates it. He doesn’t need to be coddled.

“I can do it,” Yuri insists, but Yakov holds up his hand.

“Yurochka, you’re going to break something at this rate. You can try them tomorrow, and if we need to make some of them triples—”

Yuri’s already shaking his head. “Not happening.”

“Okay. We’ll see how it goes tomorrow. Right now, I want to see your spins again. Your Biellmann needs some tweaking.”

His Biellmann is fine; it’s an obvious ploy to distract him from the jumps. But whatever. Yuri skates off to an open patch of ice, fuming. Too late, he realizes Otabek’s right there too, blank-faced, arms folded. As if Yuri’s no one in particular.

“What happened there?” Otabek asks. “You’ve been nailing those jumps all season.”

He may as well have punched Yuri in the chest, because suddenly Yuri can’t breathe. An electric spark of hope begins to glow in his heart. “You were watching?”

Otabek’s expression remains perfectly neutral. “I always watch the competition.”

“Oh,” Yuri says. “Okay.” So he’s just competition now. That’s fine. That shouldn’t surprise him. Shouldn’t feel like his ribcage is collapsing in on itself.

“Anyway, I’m taking off now.” Otabek shrugs. “Maybe it’ll help you concentrate.” The corner of his mouth twists up, like he’s trying to smile but can’t quite manage it.

Sure, Yuri can breathe easier once Otabek leaves. But he still can’t land his fucking quad sal, and he can’t land it the next day either, and Yakov orders him to drop the quad lutz entirely. Mutinous, Yuri promises to do so.

 

His costume for the short is a fucking work of art; he designed it himself and it sent Yakov into a fit. Which, you know, means it’s the best thing he’s ever put on his body.

 

**yuri-plisetsky**

when they say you can’t put that much glitter on one outfit, prove them wrong. #wearsilverwingold

 

The fabric’s practically weightless, the entire back of the costume a translucent piece covered in a shimmering pattern that mimics the scales of a butterfly’s wings. Black pants, red gloves, and a little bit of black lace at collar and cuffs complete the ensemble. This is the third time people will see it, so Yuri’s brought along one more secret touch.

Katsuki’s coming off the ice now, and once his scores are up, it’ll be Yuri’s turn. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a compact mirror, and while Yakov’s distracted by squinting at the scoreboard, Yuri paints on silver lipstick.

Then Yakov turns to him. “Okay, Yurochka, let’s—boy, what the hell are you wearing?”

“My good-luck charm,” Yuri tells him, and hurries to get on the ice before Yakov can say anything else.

Often, when he skates, it feels like he’s there _with_ the audience—feeding them emotions, absorbing their responses. This time, as he takes the center of the ice, the edges of the rink fade away. And then he’s utterly alone, frozen in his starting pose.

His [music](https://vimeo.com/53773168) starts, a faint flickering trickle of notes; when the drums begin, he comes to life with them.

_j’ai des butterfly, des papillons en pagaille_

_ton visage se dessine dans le moindre détail_

He could have kept loving this music, if he’d never looked up a translation. Or if he hadn’t thrown a grenade into his first, best friendship. As things stand, the lyrics crackle under his skin like shattered glass, cutting him no matter how he moves. Then, after just a few seconds of agony, his mind goes blessedly empty.

He floats through a triple axel, easy as breathing. The butterfly takes shape. A gentle breeze lifts him, whirls him like a carousel through flying camel and Biellmann.

_j’ai des butterfly, des emotions en pagaille_

_mon ventre se tort avant de te dire bye bye_

Halfway through now. Quad toe, nothing to it. Step sequence, immaculate rhythm. _I wish I could have kissed you goodbye—_ No. That doesn’t belong here. Nothing but sunlight above and sweet flowers below.

_un peu sonnée par cette foutue bataille_

_je m'accroche à tes mots dans le moindre détail_

His quad sal’s coming up, but he’s not worried. Today, he’s nothing but a mannequin, all individual features and fears erased. Today, as if the awful practices had never happened, he lands quad sal, then triple toe, and keeps on flying.

Last spin, keep breathing, almost there—and then it’s over, he’s drawing in ragged breaths, and he can hear the audience screaming. They might have been doing that for awhile; he can’t be certain.

When he gets off the ice, Yakov wants to nitpick his axel. Yuri wants to sit down. He stares at the scoreboard, waiting, while Yakov goes on about his free leg. There was nothing wrong with his free leg, but there’s no point arguing. The numbers come up; his score is good. Maybe even good enough.

Otabek is skating next to last, because by some bizarre twist, he’s currently higher in the standings than Yuri. (To nobody’s surprise, Victor’s way ahead of absolutely everyone.) Yuri finds a place in the stands from which to watch, working up the nerve to give Otabek a thumbs-up if Otabek happens to look at him.

Otabek never looks at him, but Yuri can’t stop looking at Otabek. Who is wearing a t-shirt. A shiny black v-neck, to be specific. Yuri breathes carefully through his nose, because Otabek is also wearing black leather pants, and he’s done something spiky to his hair that’s totally weird but also totally…well, it’s something else. But it’s useless to think these things, because everything’s different now.

[It starts with](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qiViMiKjHWQ) electric guitars that razor straight through Yuri’s chest, melancholy and aching.

_fireworks and sparks when the fever starts in your eyes tonight_

_explosions of heat and electricity in the firefight_

Just like that, Yuri’s trapped in a ravine, that flood rushing toward him like a freight train. He’d known it would come, tried to dodge it, tried to build walls high enough that the smothering water couldn’t reach him. But his careful fortifications crumble in the waves. Firelight and too much bare skin, scattered stars, the sound of a river curling through the mountains—he wants to close his eyes, block it out somehow, but he doesn’t want to miss a moment.

_I’m falling deeper into love faster than you know_

_believe it when I say_

_I think you’re gonna like the short_ , Otabek had said, and if Yuri pushes all the grief and fear of the last few months out of his mind, he likes it a lot. Who wouldn’t? Talented, gorgeous Otabek, stepping way out of his comfort zone to do completely evil things with his hips. To hurl himself into a tano triple lutz Yuri’d had no idea he could do now. To get everyone’s eyes on him and keep them there.

_and when you think everything's lost_

_you got me_

The last notes are still fading from the air when Yuri decides to get the fuck away from here. He has no intention of watching Otabek in the kiss and cry, probably getting a new personal best, celebrating. Good for him, right? Yeah.

So he’s already on the sidewalk outside the rink when Victor skates, and he doesn’t see what happens.

 

Yuri had fallen asleep fully-dressed, on top of the covers on his bed. Now, dazed, he’s scrolling through some odd messages from Yakov and Katsuki, insisting that he contact them. There are four missed calls, but he doesn’t want to talk to anyone; he doesn’t want to be around anyone. It doesn’t matter whether he won or Victor won or whatever. The scores are the same whether he knows them right this second or not, so who cares.

His phone buzzes three times in quick succession. Jesus, can’t they leave him alone for just a couple hours?

 

<Katsuki>

_I wanted to tell you in person_

_But no one can reach you_

_Victor fell_

 

It feels like he’s jumped into an ice-cold ocean, the air smacked out of his lungs. _Victor fell_. Everyone falls and it’s normal; texts about falls are not normal. He hits the call button.

Katsuki answers after half a ring. “Yuri, thank god, we’ve been trying to find you!”

“Where are you?” Yuri asks.

“Hospital. It’s fine, he’s going to be fine, but—” Katsuki’s voice shakes. “He’ll have to withdraw. He didn’t tell many people, but he’s been having some trouble with his right hip this season. Anyway, he fell on the quad flip and couldn’t finish.”

Yuri tastes blood and realizes he’s been biting his lip; he lets up the pressure and takes a deep breath. It would be funny if it weren’t horrible—being taken out by your signature move. “Should I come, or…”

“No, no,” Katsuki assures him. “He told me to tell you to keep practicing and not worry about him. He says your short was beautiful and you would have won even if he hadn’t gotten hurt.”

“I won the short?”

Katsuki’s silent for a moment. “Well, you broke a world record, so yes, you won the short. Look, try to put this out of your mind for now and concentrate on the free skate, okay? That’s all either of us can do.”

Yuri agrees, and they hang up. He searches _grand prix final short program results_ , and there’s his name in first place, followed by…Otabek’s? And Otabek’s score is only two points below his. Five points ahead of Katsuki, in third. Clearly, Yuri’s fallen into an alternate universe, where the normal order of things has reversed itself and Victor’s name is—for the first time in Yuri’s life—at the very bottom of the list: _W/D - INJURY_.

 

Yuri decides to take the night for himself rather than going to a late session at the rink. He’s shaken by Victor's fall; it wouldn’t be worthwhile to practice in this state. When he texts Yakov, Yakov actually agrees, so it’s settled.

He curls up in bed with his laptop, scrolling through YouTube for clips from the short program. There’s one from someone in the audience called _Victor Nikiforov GPF Horrible Injury!!_ The title makes his stomach turn. He doesn’t click it. _Mila and Sara Practicing_ looks more promising—it turns out to be a shaky video from a public practice session of Mila fucking around on the ice with Sara. They’ve got some competent lifts and a nice throw double axel. Come to think of it, Mila did say she’d been inspired by the exhibition pair skates last season—how about that. Yuri bookmarks the video and keeps going.

Then he finds _Otabek Altin CUTE INTERVIEW_. He shouldn’t watch it, but he knows that even if he skips over it now, he’ll end up going back to it. May as well get it over with.

Otabek is standing outside the rink with a woman in a red coat. His hair is still perfect and he’s back in the comfort of his leather jacket and gray scarf. His eyes shift; he’s never liked looking directly into cameras.

“I’m here with Otabek Altin, who’s currently in second place after the short program in the Grand Prix Final! Otabek, how do you feel about your performance this afternoon? Were you expecting to be hot on Yuri Plisetsky’s heels?”

“Well, I’ve been working hard all year to reach my goals, and I scored a new personal best today, so I’m feeling very good. I’m looking forward to the free skate.” Otabek appears to ignore the mention of Yuri entirely.

“A shame about Victor Nikiforov, isn’t it?”

“It’s awful. Sure, we’re all in competition, but this far up in the ranks, we’re also a pretty close-knit group. None of us would ever wish a fall like that on another skater. Victor, if you’re watching this, I wish you all the best in recovery, and I’d better see you at Worlds.”

“One more thing—on a lighter note, I’m sure you’ve been asked this already, but—”

Otabek puts his hand over his eyes, groaning. “Oh no.”

“At Skate America, did you find it distracting when that girl yelled from the stands?”

Intercut, a clip from Beijing. Otabek in his starting pose. Then, from the audience: “Otabek, you’re hot!” And Otabek cracks the fuck up, as if distraction ten seconds before his program starts is funny. As if he likes it.

“You know, I absolutely adore all my fans.” Otabek winks at the camera. “While it’s important to allow us to concentrate, I thought that moment was very sweet. I hope she’s enjoyed watching the Series.” He lifts his hand and runs his fingers through his hair; his jacket sleeve rides up. Around his wrist, there’s something that looks like a hairtie. Yuri squints at it. Why would Otabek have…

The reporter is wrapping things up. “Otabek, thank you very much for your time, and good luck in the free skate!”

Yuri rewinds it. Pauses it at the moment Otabek’s arm is clearly in view. It looks like…leopard print?

He jerks backward with a gasp. It’s _his_ hairtie; he has so many just like it, and he must have lost one in Almaty. Otabek’s wearing Yuri’s fucking hairtie on his fucking wrist. What the _fuck_.

 

The next day, Yuri blows through his early practice like some kind of demon, landing everything, leaving Yakov speechless for once. He’s had enough of all this shit, and he waves Yakov on ahead when he’s finished, lingering in the locker room while everyone else dresses and clears out.

Otabek is still sitting on a bench when the rest of them are gone, slowly pulling on a leather boot. Yuri marches over to him and grabs Otabek’s wrist. He pushes up the sleeve of Otabek’s sweater, and there it is: a band of leopard print, standing out like a brand. Otabek is looking up at him, saying nothing, his expression unreadable.

“Where did you get this?” Yuri already knows, and Otabek has to know he knows, so he’s not sure why he’s even bothering to ask.

Otabek tugs his arm out of Yuri’s hand. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Well, you showed it off in that interview, so I kind of ended up seeing it. Why the fuck do you have it?”

“Here, just—” Otabek slips the hairtie off and shoves it into Yuri’s hand. “Take it back. I’m sorry.” The brush of his fingers against Yuri’s palm is far too fleeting.

“It’s not a big deal,” Yuri says, belatedly.

Otabek is already striding out of the locker room.

 

Yuri doesn’t want to see Otabek’s free skate, but it’s happening right there on the giant fucking television in the room where he’s waiting. So he’s trapped with it.

Otabek is wearing black trousers and a dress shirt the color of wine. A scattering of crystals across the shoulders and sleeves catch the light like tiny flashing stars. His hair this time is slicked back—controlled, like his expression. He stands, head down and hands at his sides, and [as a guitar begins](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w_YJhmGKTxk) to tremble up and down scales, he moves.

_spare me your judgements and spare me your dreams_

_‘cause recently mine have been tearing my seams_

He sails through a quad loop—Yuri has no idea when he learned _that_. Haunting piano joins the backdrop of his music.

Three more jumping passes, all effortless. Not even two minutes in, and the audience is losing its shit. Which, Yuri has to admit, is fair. He breathes deep, tries to set aside the entire awful summer that’s just passed, and for a moment he can imagine it’s nobody special out there, nobody who matters. Then the piano falls down, down, and Yuri’s stomach drops with it. A bass drum throbs, heavy as a heartbeat.

_I know you have felt much more love than you’ve shown_

_and I’m on my knees, and the water creeps to my chest_

Combination spin. Yuri’s adding up the values. If Otabek keeps on like this—well, all Yuri has to do is skate his best. His best breaks records. It’ll be fine.

_the sky above us shoots to kill_

_rain down, rain down on me_

Chills spider down Yuri’s spine as the choreographed desolation unfolds. The piano fluttering like fragile glittering wings; a frenzy of percussion, close to heart attack; the rough, raw vocals soaring—Yuri holds his breath. The music’s a storm rising, something’s coming, something terrible—

_oh, I will hold on, I will hold on_

Quad toe-quad toe combination. The roar of the audience is much too much; Yuri wants to cover his ears but his body won’t obey him. Otabek rockets into a flying sit spin, bowing his head like one damned, and Yuri’s eyes are burning—he doesn’t remember when last he blinked. He rubs hard at his eyelids and his fingers come away wet.

On the ice, heartbreak turns to fury. Step sequence— _his body rolling smooth as ocean waves, dimly lit by the bedside lamp_ —Yuri shakes his head. That was then. That is gone. Otabek holds out his hands to a ghostly partner, anguish apparent in every line of him.

_take the spade from my hands and fill in the holes you’ve made_

One final spin, and Otabek ends with his head in his hands, breathing hard.

Yuri turns and heads for the hallway to the ice. _Highest total base value_ , he reminds himself. Not only that, but his GOE scores always blow everyone else’s away. It’s going. To be. Fine.

 

After the free skate, Yuri will get asked over and over what he thinks went wrong. Was he injured; had he slept poorly? Might he have been under the weather? Had his other competitions exhausted him too soon? Over and over, he tells curious reporters that none of that is the case, which is true. He tells them he doesn’t know what happened, which is a lie. He knows exactly what— _who_ —went wrong for him, but no amount of jump training could have done a fucking thing about it. And it’s none of their business anyway.

Yakov shows him a video of it later, like always. Watching it feels dreamlike, as Yuri has little recollection of it past setting foot on the rink. His costume is this blue, ethereal thing with a lot of gauze and netting. Lilia had designed this one, along with the program itself, and of course it’s beautifully suited to [the music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9wxrB41PMhw).

Sadly, her talent is wasted today. Yuri falls on his second jump, a quad sal, and although he looks startled, he appears to recover. Yet his movements are no longer fluid; his expression seems forced. Just past the halfway mark, he breaks his promise to Yakov and goes for the quad lutz.

He hits the ice hard, barely avoiding striking his head. It takes him too long to get up, and he almost misses the entrance to another quad sal, but he manages to wrestle his way through it. It is neither pretty nor skilled in execution, and the rest of his jumps progress in the same manner. With his back wrenched from two falls, he can’t get low enough in a sit spin; he can’t get his leg high enough in a camel. The moment the music ends, he bends over with his hands on his knees, gritting his teeth.

Yuri slaps the pause button. He doesn’t want to see the rest, where his memory kicks back in and he’s limping off the ice unable to stand up straight, his muscles already clamping tight around the injury. Where he sits in the kiss and cry with his head down, waiting for his scores, already knowing he’s doomed. Where Yakov—grouchy, prickly Yakov—pats his shoulders and tries to whisper calming things until Yuri snaps at him to shut up. Where Yakov’s mouth tightens, but he says nothing else.

So Katsuki gets his wish and beats Yuri, and Otabek gets _his_ wish and takes gold for Kazakhstan, and Yuri accepts bronze knowing he wouldn’t have even made the podium had Victor still been a contender.

 

After the medal ceremony, Yuri gets dragged out to dinner by Katsuki and Victor, who’s getting around pretty well on crutches now. Of course, everyone is there, meaning Otabek is there; of course, Otabek’s sitting next to Chris. Yuri can only pick at his food, even though it’s supposed to be fancy as hell and Victor’s buying his meal. The conversation hums around him, incomprehensible. Occasionally he’ll hear his name, look up, and guess at the correct response. Eventually he’s left alone, even by J.J., all of them probably assuming he’s just disappointed in his free skate. But for once, his failures as a skater are the last thing on his mind.

At one point, Yuri returns from the bathroom to find that Otabek has left. Chris looks up and pats the seat next to him, and Yuri considers telling him where he can stick his offer, but he’s just so tired of fighting. He drops heavily into the chair and leans his elbows on the table. Otabek’s empty water glass hasn’t been cleared away yet; there are crumbs of bread on the tablecloth.

Chris nudges his shoulder. “Yuri, I probably shouldn’t bring this up, but my friend is moping and I’d kind of like for that to stop. I really think you should talk to him.”

“Do you,” Yuri says flatly. As if he’d ever ask Chris’s advice?

Chris grabs a napkin and starts writing on it. “I can’t make you do it, but in case you want to know, here’s his room number.” He pushes the napkin toward Yuri, who stares at it for a moment.

Then Yuri snatches it up and sticks it in his pocket. “Thanks, I guess,” he says. “Can’t promise anything.”

 

Back at the hotel, Yuri lies on top of ice packs on the bed, trying to craft the perfect note. He’d considered just texting Otabek, but somehow that doesn’t seem like enough. Soon, his first few attempts litter the floor on crumpled hotel stationary. Some were too long. Others, too flowery. What the hell could he say in one note to explain five months of silence?

He realizes then that a note _isn’t_ enough. His next try is very short.

 

Otabek —

I don’t know how to fix things

but I’m sorry.

— Yuri (Room 203)

 

He takes the elevator to the third floor, and by some magic makes it to Room 317 without encountering Otabek or anyone else. At the door, he suffers a moment of indecision: to slide the note under the door, or leave it outside? He doesn’t want it to get lost, so he bends down and pushes it through the slight gap between door and carpet. Instantly, he wishes he could get it back; he feels like he’s sticking his hand into a snake’s hole. But it’s too late now. He’ll have to let it play out.

Should he knock? Or just let Otabek find it whenever he finds it? Time is short; the gala is tomorrow and he has no idea if Otabek is even staying for the banquet afterward. So if Otabek is in his room, Yuri needs him to notice the note as soon as possible.

Yuri raises a fist, preparing to rap on the door, tensing his legs to flee as soon as he’s done it—

And the door swings open.

Otabek’s standing there, holding Yuri’s still-folded note. “What’s this?” At least he doesn’t look mad, just confused.

“Nothing,” Yuri mumbles, and he reaches for the note, because Otabek was never meant to read it with Yuri _present_.

But Otabek dodges his grasp, lifting the note just out of reach. “This is from you?” As if it isn’t obvious.

Yuri nods, defeated. He can’t meet Otabek’s gaze, so he shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants and studies the hallway carpet, patterned in plush swirls of forest green and navy blue. All this has to be one of his stupider ideas, right up there with kissing his best friend and then ditching said best friend.

There’s rustling as Otabek unfolds the note, then a few moments of silence while he reads it. Then he sighs. “I’m going for a walk in a bit. Meet me in the lobby at 19:30 if you want to talk.”

“Okay,” Yuri says, almost soundlessly.

He has only thirty minutes to a) decide if he’s going and b) find something to wear. He spends twenty of the minutes sitting on the end of his bed, his heart pounding in his throat, until finally he knows he won’t forgive himself if he doesn’t take this chance. Then he’s got to hunt frantically through his suitcase, grabbing the first clean clothing his hands land on—a pair of thick, soft black leggings and a sky-blue sweater. He takes the stairs, faster than the elevator would have been even though it makes his back twinge horribly, and tears into the lobby at precisely 19:28 according to his phone.

Otabek isn’t there.

Yuri slaps a pillar, stinging his palm and earning a glare from the receptionist. He glares back and is about to do it again when—

“Hey, careful,” Otabek calls out. “I didn’t leave without you.” Otabek has on his leather jacket over a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. He isn’t smiling.

They don’t walk far, just a few kilometers in unusual and absolute silence. Soon they’re entering a park along a narrow river. Otabek stops at a low stone wall and climbs up onto it. “Is your hand okay?”

“Yeah.” Actually, Yuri’s palm stings, and one of his knuckles aches maybe more than it should. But there’s no swelling, so he’s not going to fuss over it.

“So,” Otabek says. He’s worked himself sideways on the wall, drawing up his knees and wrapping his arms around them. He doesn’t say anything more, and he’s looking out over the starlit water, not at Yuri.

Yuri figures it must be up to him to get things moving. He leans against the wall a meter or so away from Otabek, folding his arms across the top of it. The cold, rough stone bites into his abdomen. He closes his eyes. It’s not like he’d thought this would be easy. “I don’t know how to start. I don’t know how to tell you what happened, because _I_ don’t know what happened.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Otabek nodding slowly. “Okay. Makes sense.”

Already, Yuri’s eyes are stinging; he’d hoped he could hold it together longer than this. “I really want my friend back. But it’s all fucked up.”

“I can’t say I disagree.” Otabek’s voice sounds like a stranger’s, and Yuri has to blink fast to keep things in check. But the next thing Otabek says is far gentler. “Yuri…Yura. It doesn’t have to stay that way.”

Yuri’s chest aches at the old nickname. “Beka, help me,” he pleads. “What do I do?”

Finally, Otabek looks at him. “Can you tell me anything about what happened—what you were thinking? I just, I want to help it not happen again.”

Yuri’s been racking his mind for months; still he does not possess a solid explanation. “I was afraid. I don’t know why. It just all felt like _so much_ , and I couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t anything you did. I thought if I let go, let it all keep happening, it would blow up in my face.”

“It kind of did anyway,” Otabek interjects, wry.

“Yeah. And…I don’t know if I want what you want? I barely know what _I_ want. How can I tell you I want to be your boyfriend when I don’t even know if I’ll feel that way in a year?”

“All I want,” Otabek says softly, “is for you to be happy. There’s a lot about this—” he gestures at the air between them— “that could be hard to handle. The distance, our training schedules…I understand if you don’t want to jump into that now. Or ever. But I’d still love to know you. If you want that.”

“Do you give speeches that epic when you win gold medals?” Yuri raises one eyebrow at him.

Otabek rolls his eyes. “No, I save it for you.” His expression softens. “If you need more time to think…”

“I don’t.” Yuri moves toward him, and Otabek swings his legs over to sit on the edge of the wall facing him. Yuri nudges himself between Otabek’s knees.

“Hi,” Otabek says, holding his arms wide.

Yuri leans forward and lets himself be hugged. Then Otabek’s hands are in his hair, scratching lightly at his temples, then the base of his skull. Yuri presses his forehead against Otabek’s; he can feel Otabek’s breath on his lips. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Beka, I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay,” Otabek says. “We’re okay.”

Given all the time that’s passed, it’s remarkably easy for Yuri to tilt his head just so and press his mouth against Otabek’s.

For a moment Otabek doesn’t move, and Yuri’s stabbed by sudden fear that he’s gravely misjudged everything—and then Otabek opens his mouth and kisses him back. His hands slide down to hold Yuri firmly by the hips, but he pulls back much too soon. “You don’t have to,” Otabek says. “I don’t want you to be scared. You won’t lose me if you don’t.”

Yuri presses closer, the leather of Otabek’s jacket smooth and warm under his palms. His whole body is thrumming. He pushes down Otabek’s hood to get his hands into Otabek’s hair; he kisses Otabek’s cheek, his jaw, his smile. “I don’t know everything I want, but I know I want _this_.”

Their next kiss lasts much, much longer.

 

On the walk back to the hotel, Yuri stays close beside Otabek, their shoulders brushing every few steps. After some minutes, he bumps the back of his hand against Otabek’s, then links their fingers. It turns out that holding Otabek’s hand isn’t scary at all; it feels like Yuri’s storm-tossed mind has at last dropped anchor.

At the doors of the elevator, they pause. Uncertainty electrifies the space between them. “Should I say good night?” Otabek asks, but he hasn’t yet let go of Yuri’s hand.

“Hell no,” Yuri tells him. “I want to see your room!”

“I’ll bet,” Otabek mutters, and Yuri doesn’t even care that he’s been seen through.

 

Now, like in the mountains, Yuri’s lying down with Otabek as the night deepens, but this time there’s no sick fear gripping him.

“I missed you,” Yuri says, during a moment stolen to catch their breath. He’s tucked against Otabek’s side, his head resting on Otabek’s shoulder. Right now he can barely feel the ache in his back.

“I missed _you_.” Otabek nuzzles at his temple until Yuri giggles.

“You’re gonna ruin my image,” Yuri complains. “You look so cool on the outside, but you’re such a fucking sap!”

“Oh, you think I’m cool?” Otabek digs his fingertips into Yuri’s ribs; Yuri can’t help but yelp and squirm. “There. Image successfully destroyed. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you secretly like all that squishy romance bullshit.”

“Shut up, shut _up_ ,” Yuri growls, and he throws himself on top of Otabek, clamping a hand over Otabek’s mouth. Then he realizes he’s gotten himself into a familiar position and flushes bright red.

Otabek reaches up to brush a strand of Yuri’s hair behind his ear. Breathless now, Yuri removes his hand from Otabek’s mouth. “Take your time,” Otabek says softly. “Take all the time you need.”

Otabek’s words quiet the heat tingling all over and inside Yuri, and he rolls to lie beside Otabek again, but keeps one arm over Otabek’s chest. “I almost forgot,” he murmurs. “Victor and Katsuki offered to take me to the onsen in Hasetsu after the banquet. You’re invited too.”

“I’d love to go.” Otabek’s breathing is steady and slow, and Yuri can feel his own eyelids getting heavy.

“I don’t want to get up,” he tells Otabek.

Otabek’s arm tightens around him. “So don’t.”

So he doesn’t, and they don’t wake again until sunlight’s shining through the curtains.

 

The gala’s a blast. Mila and Sara skate to something classical and romantic, and when they finish, Sara kisses Mila’s cheek and Mila goes very pink. Yuri squints, suspicious. He’s going to find Mila later and make her tell him _everything_.

Yuri and Otabek skate last, in that order. For the first time the whole Grand Prix, Otabek catches Yuri by the arm before Yuri heads for the ice. He brushes his lips against Yuri’s ear. “ _Davai_ ,” he whispers. “I wanted to say that so many times. _Davai_ , Yura.”

Yuri finds he’s too choked up to answer properly, but he nods hard and gives Otabek a thumbs up.

 

At the banquet that night, Yuri steals olives off Otabek’s plate until Otabek bats his hand away. “I see,” Otabek grumbles. “This is the thanks I get for being your best friend.”

The dance floor is illuminated by a rainbow of spotlights, but over at the wall where they’re standing, it’s very dark. Not like anyone would care, though, if—

Yuri leans in close, placing his palm over Otabek’s heart. “No,” he says. “ _This_ is the thanks you get.” And he keeps his mouth soft, kissing Otabek slowly and thoroughly, until Otabek’s pulse is racing. Sure, they’re standing on a knife-edge—but finally they’re balancing together.

 

<Yuri>

_when we get there ur sharing a room with me_

<Otabek>

_Why are you texting me when you’re sitting next to me?_

<Yuri>

_u could share the bed i mean_

_u rly want mr and mr perfect couple across the aisle to overhear this??_

<Otabek>

_You raise a good point._

_Yeah, we can share. :)_

<Yuri>

_stop turning red theyll notice_

_they see everything_

_I SAID STOP BLUSHING_

<Otabek>

_Yura, you’re blushing worse than me._

<Yuri>

_no im not_

_u need to get ur eyes checked_

 

**otabek-altin**

Finally got my favorite sweatshirt back! #ootd

**yuri-plisetsky**

time for five and a half hours on a train with this asshole… #onsentrip

**otabek-altin**

Says he hates romantic bullshit. Draws our initials inside a heart anyway. #adorable

**yuri-plisetsky**

google how do i delete my boyfriend’s ig post #urnotfunny

**otabek-altin**

Boyfriend?? #thatsinteresting

**yuri-plisetsky**

damn u autocorrect #heismyboyfriendtho

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • I’m on tumblr—[come say hello!](https://meimagino.tumblr.com)
> 
> • LOL IT’S THE CHATFIC THAT WASN’T. When I started this, I thought it was gonna be around 10k. I thought there would be a LOT more social media. And then things got out of hand. I desperately want to ramble about the writing process and the music I used, so if you super hate that, skip ahead now to the comment section. You know, if you want to. ;) <3
> 
> • I am very sorry for hurting Victor. Honestly, I didn’t plan that; it just happened and I went with it and it worked. I promise he heals fine and wins Worlds again.
> 
> • I’m indulging myself imagining a world where that many videos of the GPF get uploaded that fast. Sigh.
> 
> • I stole part of Yuri’s SP from [Johnny Weir’s “The Swan,”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uJ9yzlAiHFc) because that’s the program that got me hooked on skating and I still think it’s one of the prettiest ever. <3
> 
> • A girl yelling from the stands [really did happen to Alexei Yagudin.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gqcsgm2VLB8)
> 
> • Nathan Chen [totally did land five quads in a free skate](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3sRRNHcZLe0%0A) this year and it was awesome. Then he [crashed and burned](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BMQzRRxtO7I%0A) in the same program a couple months later, which was brutally sad. Anyway, I based Otabek’s FS experience on the first video, and Yuri’s on the second.
> 
> • Yuri’s SP is [Superbus - Butterfly](https://vimeo.com/53773168%0A) ([translation](http://lyricstranslate.com/en/-butterfly.html)), and his FS is [David Lanz - Cristofori’s Dream](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9wxrB41PMhw%0A). For his FS costume, I was thinking of [Johnny Weir’s for “Otonal.”](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/6d/8e/8b/6d8e8b64008861c8682e037291663b8a--johnny-weir-costumes-for-men.jpg) The other one I just made the hell up based on the color scheme in the music video. :p
> 
> • Title and mood inspiration came from [VHS or Beta - You Got Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qiViMiKjHWQ%0A), which also became Otabek’s SP. (That SP is also based on [Stéphane Lambiel’s “Gimme More / Sexyback,”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pCQWXVQU4Lg&t=204s) in case you want to know what kind of hairstyle and ~evil hip things~ Otabek has going on. Trust me…you want to click that link.) His FS is [Mumford and Sons - Thistle and Weeds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w_YJhmGKTxk%0A). My hc specific to this fic is that Otabek and Yuri inspired each other while creating WTTM, and the next season, Otabek decided to skate to rock music too. :)
> 
> • Because that song is so goddamn sad, I just wanna point out that Otabek had already picked “Thistle and Weeds” before shit went down w/ Yuri! So it’s not meant as a drag, although it did take on…additional meaning, by the time the GPF rolled around.
> 
> • I actually wrote out full choreography for Otabek’s and Yuri’s free skates, and (mentally) cut the music to be the right length, because I’m a nerd and wanted to get the timing just right. I gave myself such a headache, so I hope it was worth it. :p
> 
> • Here’s some other music that heavily influenced various parts of this story, roughly in order of when they apply:
> 
> The Used - Blue and Yellow  
> Incubus - Stellar  
> Rihanna - Diamonds  
> Neon Trees - Animal  
> Kylie Minogue - Can’t Get You Out of My Head  
> Sam Sparro - Black and Gold  
> Tool - Schism  
> Gotye - Somebody That I Used to Know  
> Franz Ferdinand - Twilight Omens


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